Fractured Secrets
by Neon Daisies
Summary: What happens when strange murders start occuring at Briar Ridge Psychiatric hospital? Wouldn't you blame the resident psychotic murderer? Can a fractured psyche be mended?
1. Prologue

In the middle ages they would have called such a occurrence demon possession.  Two hundred years ago, such a man would have been locked up in a sanitarium.  A hundred years ago, or even fifty, perhaps a lobotomy would have been deigned as the best way to 'cure' a man in this condition.  But modern medicine, and modern science, and even modern law looks down on all these.  No, for a man driven crazy, or even suffering from an extreme nervous breakdown, there was only one thing to do.  Humanely drug him into submission, submit him to legion of doctors with their tests and psychologists with their questions.  And for what?  In order to make him as healthy as possible – as sane as possible – before bringing him before a jury to plead insanity.  And with that plea comes the sentence of being condemned to an 'institution' until you once again descend into madness, or become 'rehabilitated.'

Simple kindness?  Modern sensibility?  The helping hand of society?  Who's to say?

Who's to say but the condemned.

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Author's Note:

Well.  Another story from Neon Daisies.  If you're not familiar with me, I encourage you to go read my two Once Upon a Time in Mexico fics.  The first is finished, the second coming slowly.  Slowly enough that I hope that inspiration here will inspire me there as well.

Just a few things to know about this fic.  While it is taking place in the same timeline as the movie (now, as opposed to the '80's), it also follows the story line from the book.  Meaning, that I twisted the book's ending to suit my own purposes.  You'll see what I mean when I get the first chapter up.  For now, tell me what you think.


	2. Chapter One

**Author's Note:** yay!  Chapter one is here, since everyone seemed so eager to get it.  Not much you really need to know, except I don't own any part of Secret Window.  I wish I owned Mort, but I don't.  Everything up to 'Eight Months Later' is ©Stephen King, and not mine.  You can find it in the anthology, Four Past Midnight.

Author's thanks at the end.

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   "Mort?  What's wrong?  What's –"

   "You got you a wrong number, woman.  Ain't no Mort here.  Mort's dead."  The gimlet eyes never wavered.  "He did a lot of squirming around, but in the end he couldn't lie to himself anymore, let alone to me.  I never put a hand on him, Mrs. Rainey.  I swear.  He took the coward's way out."

   "Why are you talking that way?" Amy asked.

   "This is just the way I talk," he said with mild surprise.  "Everybody down in Miss'ippi talks this way."

   "Mort, stop!"

   "Don't you understand what I _said_?"he asked.  "You ain't deaf, are you?  He's _dead.  _He killed himself."

   "Stop it, Mort," she said, beginning to cry.  "You're scaring me, and I don't like it."

   "Don't matter," he said.  He took his hands out from behind his back.  In one of them he held the scissors from the top drawer of the desk.  He raised them.  The sun had come out, and it sent a starfish glitter along the blades as he snicked them open and then closed. 

 "You won't be scared long."  He began walking toward her.

For a moment she stood where she was.  Mort would not kill her; if there had been killing in Mort, then surely he would have done some that day at the motel.

   Then she saw the look in his eyes and understood that Mort knew that, too.

   But this wasn't him….Amy turned and bolted for the door….She struck the screen door with her hands, then tripped and fell full-length on the porch, the breath whooshing out of her.  She fell exactly where Shooter had left his manuscript. 

   She rolled over and saw him coming.  He only had his bare hands now, but they looked like they would be more than enough.  His eyes were stern and unflinching and horribly kind beneath the brim of the black hat.

   "I am so sorry, missus," he said.

   _"Rainey!" _a voice cried.  "Stop!"

   She tried to look around and could not.  She had strained something in her neck.  Shooter never even tried.  He simply came on toward her.

   "_Rainey!  _Stop!"

   "There is no Rainey h –" Shooter began, and then a gunshot rapped briskly across the fall air.  Shooter stopped where he was, and looked curiously, almost casually, down at his chest.  There was a small hole there.  No blood issued from it – at least, not at first – but the hole was there.  He put his hand to it, then brought it away.  His index finger was marked by a small dot of blood.  It looked like a bit of punctuation – the kind which ends a sentence.  He looked at this thoughtfully.  Then he dropped his hands and looked at Amy.

   "Babe?" he asked, and then fell full-length beside her on the porch boards.

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**Eight Months Later:**

There were only three things in Carly Beckham's sphere of influence she had no control over: her hair, the weather, and her mother.  She chose not to accept responsibility for random or deserved acts of God.

   On this particular spring day, the weather was as beautiful as it ever got in Augusta, Maine, in early spring, and her hair was being unusually cooperative.  But despite these two normally good portents for the day, she was already exasperated.  The reason for that was on the other end of the phone.

   "No Mother, this is not a good time for you to visit."  Carly struggled to get out of her car without dropping her coffee, her bagel, her briefcase, or without raising her voice as she talked to her mother on her cell phone.  "I just got a new case load at work….No, they're not overworking me.  I always put in extra time when I get a new patient.  I like having a battle plan….No Mother, I am not stressed.  Yes Mother, I'm aware of what stress does to your heart.  No Mother, I'm not tempted to go get a drink, and no, I don't need you to come up and help me with my spring cleaning."  She took a deep breath and closed her eyes as her coffee slipped from her hand and spilled all over the ground.  "Mom, I gotta go.  I'm going to be late for work.  Yes, I promise to call soon.  Yes, yes, and I'll call Brian.  _Good-bye_, Mother."

   Looking down at the fading remains of her mochachino frappe or whatever it'd been that she'd ordered, Carly did indeed feel the urge to track down something with alcohol in it, but she ruthlessly crushed it.  She'd worked too hard for control over her life to ruin it now.  "Seven and a half hours and I can go home," she told herself.  "And a job to do in the meantime.  So get to it."

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 "Hey, Dr. Beckham.  Bad morning?"

   "You've no idea, Leo.  My mother decided this was a good time to call."  The office staff was familiar with her mother's calls, since she managed to call the Maine psychological facility – otherwise known as Briar Ridge – where Carly worked, several times a month.

   "Ouch."  Leona McWade was a pixy-like woman of forty-five.  Sweet, tiny, and with hair that'd gone grey very early in life, she looked like someone's sprightly grandmother, not the terror of lazy office staff.  "If she tries calling again, I'll make sure she accidentally gets disconnected. 

   "You're a treasure, Leo."  Carly grinned, pouring herself a cup of lukewarm coffee in the empty break room, gasping as she realized how strong it was.  "Leo, you've _got_ to start cutting back on how much coffee you use.  This brew would take the wax and varnish off a dance floor."

   "Stop complaining.  You could use the pick-me-up.  Besides, it keeps the temps and first-years from draining the pot."  Glancing out the door, the head secretary said, "Gotta go.  Half my staff is out with spring fever and the phones are ringing off the hook."

   Carly nodded a good-bye and took this rare moment of inactivity to compose herself before facing yet another day of work.  Briar Ridge was a good psych hospital – it had high success in treating and rehabilitating patients, the grounds were well tended, and the staff well-educated and dedicated to their work.  On the outside, things ran smoothly.  Unfortunately, on the inside, personalities tended to clash, and Carly admitted to doing nothing to help the situation.  She'd never given a damn about office politics, and regrettably, her isolationist mentality had made her few friends.  But then again, she wasn't in this to make friends.  She was in this to cure diseases and treat mental imbalances.

   Yet it was with a sigh that she drained her coffee and crumpled the cup.

   Leaving the break room and moving to the staff room, Carly stripped off her light jacket, putting it in her locker.  Her purse went on the hook after she made sure that her cell phone was turned off.  A large scruntchy was used to pull back her uncontrollable mass of curly, mouse-brown hair.  Since this was a government run facility, she didn't have an office, so she dug out the files she needed and grabbed her clipboard.  Her pager was on the top shelf, and she picked it up and attached it to the waistband of her jeans.  Looking at her watch, Carly noticed she was already fifteen minutes late for her first meeting of the day.  Sighing, she slipped on her required white overcoat, and attached her nametag and security clearance tag to the lapel.  A pen in the pocket of her coat, and she was set.

   Walking down the hallway in a pair of Adidas that were nearly silent on the waxed tiles, she made her way to the administrator's office.  Dr. Holshack was one of three people on staff to have their own office.  The other two were Dr. Gable, the head doctor, and Dr. Marchman, head of the criminally insane ward.  A ward she'd be visiting today.

   She was five feet from the door when she heard the raised voice.  "You can't _do_ this!  Patient 3357 is on _my_ caseload, and I've made progress.  What right do you have to take everything I've accomplished in the past three months and throw that away?  Everyone knows that Dr. Beckham doesn't treat _people._  She treats diagnoses.  What he needs is a human touch, not the ice that springs from _her_ fingers!"

   "If Mr. Rainey needed nothing more than a human touch, he'd be better by now?  Wouldn't he Steve?"  Carly leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed over clipboard and chest, a calm look on her face.  As if his outspoken comments hadn't hurt.  "Well, you know what they say . . . to err is human."  Moving into the room, she took a seat, ignoring the look of anger on her colleague's face.  "And your _gentle touch_ can't be too human if you're still referring to the patient by his case number."

   Breaking in, Dr. Holshack took back the reigns of the conversation before things could escalate.  "Dr. Beckham's record with non-communicative patients is exemplary.  You've had this guy for eight months, and all you can say is he hasn't tried to hurt anyone for three of them."  The other man took a seat in the chair next to Carly's, the anger on his face turning into defensiveness.  

   "By all means, I'm not sure what else you expect.  The man is charged with arson, attempted murder, and two counts of murder in the first degree.  He's a kook.  This is the best you're going to get.  And if he spends any time with Dr. Beckham, I'm afraid he'll regress."

   "Regress into something other than the shell of the man he used to be?  Is that what you're afraid of, Steve?  And he wasn't charged with attempted murder.  His ex-wife refused to press charges."  She'd done her homework the night before, and was well aware of the facts surrounding the case.

   "You know, Beckham, I'm getting real tired of your holier-than-thou attitu –"

   "That's enough, children."  Leaning back in his chair, Dr. Holshack exercised his authority.  "Carly has the case, Steve.  That's final.  Mr. Rainey has a court date in a little over three months, and it'd be nice if he could say a few words for himself by that time.  You can go now."

   Carly looked down at her lap as Steve got up, his face white with suppressed anger.  "Nice chatting with you, Steve," she drawled as he left the room.  The door slammed and she winced, but didn't regret her actions.

   "You're not helping matters, Beckham."

   "It's hard to be helpful when you're the staff ice queen, Adam."  In private meetings, Dr. Holshack preferred to let protocol drop.  "It's even harder when you can hear that being proclaimed from five feet down the hall."

   "Still, it'd be nice if you at least made an effort to be professional."

   "I was being professional.  I didn't make a point to emasculate him, did I?"  There was a wry smile on her lips.  "I'm sorry.  I'll try to be on time to the next meeting and forestall some of the unpleasantness."

   Adam Holshack merely shook his head.  He didn't understand why Carly didn't let her humor show around her colleagues.  If she did, she'd win more of them over than she offended.  "Fine.  Go.  Treat your patients.  But don't give anyone else a reason to come crying to me today."

   Excused, Carly got to her feet with an ironic salute.  "Aye-aye, sir."  Glad to be sprung with only a mild reprimand, she left the office and made her way to an elevator that would take her to the third floor and the criminal ward.

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Exiting the elevator at the third floor, Carly felt like she'd stepped into another world.  _No wonder Rainey hasn't shown any progress,_ she thought, looking around.  The walls were gunmetal grey, there were security guards at the intersection of every corridor, and there were large gates to get in and out of the ward.  It was like a prison.  Which theoretically made sense since every patient here was deemed criminally insane.

   Walking up to the check-in point, Carly showed of her employee identification.  "Dr. Beckham, here to see Mr. Rainey?"

   A bored receptionist looked at her through the wall of bulletproof glass before pushing the intercom button.  "Patient ID number?"

   "3357-249B"

   "Just a moment, Dr. Beckham."  Making a note of the time, patient, and doctor, the woman looked back up.  "Are you wearing any hairpins or jewelry – such as necklaces, bracelets, or earrings, or pins – that could become a hazard?"

   "No."  Carly was surprised by the question.  She'd thought that Rainey had been non-responsive to any sort of stimuli.

   "Are you carrying anything that could be construed as a weapon?"

   "Just my pen.  Is there a reason for this?  I thought Mr. Rainey was nonviolent."

   "Procedure, ma'am."  The woman kept making notes.  "Reason for the visit?"

   "Observation and treatment."  _I obviously need to come up here more often._

   "Thank you."  There was a buzz and one of the guards opened the gate that would let her into the ward.

   "Thank you."  Shaking her head, Carly walked over to the man, waited as he closed the door and unlocked the next one.  "Tell me," she looked at the man's nametag, "Ralph.  Is all this really necessary?"

   "It has been at times, Dr. Beckham.  We've got a quiet lot at the moment, but even one change can upset the group dynamic.  And that includes you."  Yes.  She'd known that.  She'd even dealt with violent patients before.  But most of them hadn't been suspected of murder either.  "This way, doctor."

   The guard led her through a series of corridors to the room she wanted.  There was a nurse waiting for her outside it, a large woman who looked like she'd been cooped up on this floor for far too long.

   "You must be Dr. Beckham."

   "Yes.  And you are…?"  Carly held out her hand to the woman, raising her eyebrows at the firm handshake she got in return.

   "Nurse Ratchet."  The name was said with aplomb, as if the woman expected Carly's reaction.  "But I prefer to go by Betty.  I'm the head of the nursing staff on this floor."

   "Pleased to meet you, Betty."  Carly turned her head to look in the door's Plexiglas window.  "And that, I take it, is Mr. Rainey."

   "So we assume.  When he came in, he swore he was a man named John Shooter, but we haven't heard a peep out of him for months now."

   Carly observed the man in the room.  He was sitting under the room's barred window, the window itself overgrown with ivy so little light entered through it.  He was . . . something else.  Long, uncombed hair covered his face, his clothing didn't exactly look clean, and he was barefoot.  Not the most threatening figure she'd ever seen.  "What's he on?" she asked absentmindedly.

   "It's all on his charts."  Betty handed them over, and Carly perused them, growing agitated by what she saw.

   "Why is he still on large doses of sedatives when he's no longer displaying violent behavior?"

   "Dr. Wright believed that the sedatives were what finally caused Rainey to quiet down."

   _Atta__ boy, Steve-o.  Drug 'em up until they can't even walk straight?  Is that your philosophy?_  Carly was less than impressed with this news.  "I want the dosage here cut in half.  If his behavior shows no change, then I want him off them completely.  We're not here to dope our patients to the gills."  Turning the page, she continued.  "It says here that he's also on some industrial strength antidepressants."  She thought  for a moment.  "Again, cut the dosage in half and see what happens.  I'll decide later whether or not to change the medication itself."  If she was going to make any headway at all, Rainey was going to have to at least be aware of when she was in the room.

   "Okay, I think I'm ready to go in."  Straightening her jacket, she moved to open the door, glancing at Ralph as he shifted on his feet.  "Something for you?"

   "I'm not sure you should go in alone, doctor.  Whatever his state now, Rainey does have a history of violent behavior."

   "He also has a history of being a gifted author."  Biting her lip, Carly nodded in acquiescence though.  "But we'll play it your way this time." 

   Ralph opened the door for her, but no one entered the room.  "Oh my god," Carly breathed as they all took a step back from the stench that emerged from the open door.  She briefly turned away, before looking back, her nose and mouth covered by one hand.  "What. . . ?"  She had to stop as anger built up inside her.  "When was the last time anyone checked in on him?"

   "Last night at midnight rounds," Betty said, her face turning red with what Carly thought was rage.

   "Can that be confirmed?" she snapped.  The smell of human by-products was overwhelming.

   "I'll have to talk to the staff and find out who was doing rounds," Betty said slowly.  "One of the new girls we hired a few weeks back was fired from her last position for neglecting patients while she was canoodling with her boyfriend on the jobsite."

   Carly shook her head.  "I want the job of whoever is responsible for this.  We're running a mental hospital, not a zoo.  This is just inhumane."  She closed the door.  "I also want Mr. Rainey washed and . . . groomed . . . before I come back."  She handed over her patient's medical charts to the nurse.  "Use the picture in his file for a guideline in how short to cut his hair.  Call janitorial staff on the double and get this mess cleaned up.  I'm off to speak to the groundskeepers.  There's no reason for any windows to be covered."  Nearly angry enough for her blood to be boiling, she stalked down the hallway, Ralph and nurse Ratchet  behind her.  "Page me when Mr. Rainey resembles a human being again."

   The gate buzzed letting her out, and she gladly went.

   _This day just keeps getting better and better._

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Just a repetition: Everything up to 'Eight Months Later' is ©Stephen King, and not mine.  You can find it in the anthology, Four Past Midnight.  'Briar Ridge' is also owned by Stephen King.  It's the name of a hospital in one of his books.

**Author's Thanks:** **CaptainJackSparrowsGirl** (oh, I've got all sorts of things planned.  Too many really, so I can't wait to see where I go either.  ^_^); **smoochies221** (I hope this was soon enough for you.); **Merrie** (I like dirty tricks, and you're starting to sound like Jeffrey . . . INTERVENTION!!!!  ^_^); **pandagal** (I hope the rest of the story lives up to the prologue.); **Dawnie****-7** (thanks for the compliments.); **Jackie Rose Sparrow** (thank you, although, I hope that opinion doesn't change as the story goes on.); **Cayenne Pepper Powder** (I love your name!  And the fact that you found the beginning intense?  Well, I can only hope the rest of the story lives up to it.); **Ashley** (Well, I don't know if I was _born_ to do this, but I am enjoying it.  You're right, the opportunity to write in this fandom was rather tempting.  I only hope that 'Life' doesn't suffer because I'm writing this one.) 


	3. Chapter Two

**Author's Note: chapter two!  I managed to write it!  The story is coming slow, but I hope you're all enjoying it.  Got a comment?  A suggestion to make things better?  Feel free to tell me.  That's what reviews are for.  ; )**

**Author's thanks at the end.**

Back in the staff lounge, Carly impatiently dialed a number from memory, and equally impatiently, waited for the phone to be picked up.

   "This is Todd."

   Todd was the near ancient caretaker for the grounds that Briar Ridge occupied.  He didn't do too much of the work himself anymore, but he had a good-sized crew of men – this time of year it was mostly college boys getting a head start on summer jobs – that did most of the mowing, mulching, and other tasks that kept the lawns and gardens looking so nice.  And he was the man to go to with a complaint because he would make sure that the right fire was lit under the right butt to get something done.

   "Todd, this is Dr. Beckham.  I –"

   "You need to come down and join me for lunch some afternoon, missy.  The rose garden is wilting in your presence."

   "It's too early for blossoms, Todd."  The irascible old man knew practically every staff person and their botanical preferences.  The only people he hadn't bothered to meet were the ones who didn't bother to come see the plants he was so proud of.

   "But not even a bud are they throwing out.  They need your charming presence to encourage them."

   Carly actually laughed at that.  Todd must be the only person she knew who would call her charming.  Most preferred "headstrong," "brusque," and her personal favorites, "cool and aloof."  One of the reasons she got along so well with the head gardener was that she willingly joined him in his diatribes and rants about what was wrong with society in general and some of the more pompous doctors on staff in specific.  "They're going to have to wait a little longer, Todd.  I just got a new case."

   "Well, bring 'em down to see your kids then."  She shook her head at her comparison to a rose.  They both knew he was talking about thorns, not petals.  "There's nothing a little sunlight won't fix."

   "That's why I needed to get a hold of you, old-timer.  I was up on the third floor today, where they keep our patients that are suspected or convicted of violent crime.  And lo-and-behold, all the windows were covered up in ivy.  Someone on your staff has been neglecting to trim the verge."

   "Dagnabit!"  The exclamation from the old man simply made Carly smile – someone was in trouble.  "Dang college kids, complaining about how they get the heebie-jeebies.  I'll make sure this is corrected in sort order.  Bad enough being stark, raving mad without being stark, raving mad in the dark," he said emphatically.  The one thing that could be said about Todd was that he took his responsibilities very seriously.  "I owe you a vase of the first rose blooms, missy, if you don't come down and get them yourself."

   "I will.  When I have time."

   "Girl, how many times do I have to tell you that you have to _make_ time for things?"

   "At least once more, but do it later . . . I'm in a bit of a rush."  With a fond smile, Carly hung up the phone, the smile soon fading.  Who was she kidding?  She rarely had time to do anything more than walk a patient around the gardens during the course of treatment.  In the past that had been often enough since she mainly dealt with those who voluntarily checked themselves in and some of the higher functioning committed patients, but with Mr. Rainey on her caseload, she'd be devoting most of her time to him.  So the gardens were out of reach for the time being.

   "And speaking of time, I'm wasting it," she muttered to herself.  Once again dialing a number, she took the time to plan what she was going to say.

   "Milbank Computer Repair and Wholesale, this is Brian."

   "Hi, Brian.  This is Carly.  Mom is on the warpath and I thought I'd warn you."

   "Oh god.  What is it this time?"  There was a trace of amusement in her brother's voice.

   "Oh, the dirtiest battle of them all.  Worse than the battle of the bulge.  We're talking really grimy.  _Spring cleaning_."  Surface conversation was always the way to go between them.  Carly had never really understood her brother, and he seemed to know that and hadn't made an effort to help her.  

   After several moments of strained silence, she heard a bell ring in the background.

   "Is that all you called to warn me about?  Because I do have customers . . ."

   "Yeah, actually, I've got two other reasons for calling.  I need a laptop for one of my patients.  Nothing fancy, but it does need to have an operating system and preferably some word processing software."  In the ensuing silence that followed her declaration, Carly could clearly hear her brother thinking, "Business first.  As always," and it frustrated her.  Was it her fault she was a decade older than he was?

   "Yeah, I suppose I've got something like that lying around.  How much did you want to spend?"

   "It's for business, but I wouldn't want to go any higher than $400."

   "Ok, I've got something on stock that'll fit those specifications.  I'm assuming you're not going to fill out the warranty card?  It won't do you much good if the computer gets thrown against the wall or something."

   _First of all, I'm not even sure I'm going to end up using it.  This is just a nebulous idea still.  Second of all, Rainey isn't displaying violent tendencies._  "That'll be fine.  Umm . . . I'll call in two days to let you know whether to ship it or not.  I want to make sure my cockamamie little plan is going to work before I spend anything."  

   "Understandable."

   Again there was silence on the line.

   "You said there was a second reason you called?"

   "Yeah.  Mom made me promise to call.  She said you had some news."

   "Well . . . I've been thinking about getting a dog."

   Carly actually smiled.  "Right.  That's what had Mom all excited.  Spill, baby bro."

   "You know Penny?"

   "I'd hope so, I have met the woman."

   "Well, I hope you like her, because she's going to be coming to a lot more family gatherings in the near future."  His voice held quite a bit of quiet pride.

   "You proposed?" Carly asked with a bit of surprise.

   "I did.  And she accepted.  I don't suppose there's any chance I could talk you into actually attending the wedding?"

   _It's not like I'll have a choice._  A few years short of forty, and she still didn't dare disobey certain maternal dictates.  "Of course you can.  I want to see Mom walk you down the aisle," she teased.

   The rest of the conversation went quickly, and the two siblings cordially said good-bye.  Carly for one was glad to hang up.  Weddings made her uneasy, ever since she'd managed to single-handedly ruin her own marriage in a matter of months.  And if one took into consideration the extremely messy divorce and the hostility that had followed . . .  Well, happy unions had never looked the same for her.  But she did hope that her brother had better luck than she'd had.

   The pager on her hip buzzed, pulling her away from such depressing thoughts.  Real life took precedence over the past.  Always.  Or at least that's what she tried to tell herself.

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Time had no meaning.  Sound had no meaning except to ensure him that he was still alive . . . which wasn't much of an assurance.  In the back room of his brain that he now occupied, touch had no meaning.  And sight . . . sight could not be afforded.  

   He couldn't notice anything.  He couldn't.  He was a writer through and through, and his imagination sprung from the people and places around him.  But what had that gotten him?  And what would it get him?  There was no life or color or hope in the place his body was.  And if he wrote what he saw, and if he got lost in what he wrote . . . he stopped before his mind could drift in that direction.  If it did, he'd get lost in _that_ day, and that was something to be avoided at all costs.

   His body was being moved, manipulated like a puppet, but he paid no attention to it.  Why should he when he was too dangerous to live in the outside world?  He was scared of what might happen if his fertile imagination ran away with him again.

   Who would he hurt?

   How badly would he hurt them?

   What would be the price?

************************************************************************

Her face, jeans, and lab coat smudged with dust and grime, Carly tottered out of the elevator hauling an ancient typewriter with her.  Before she gave Rainey the laptop, she wanted to confirm something.  As an author, the man would be used to expressing himself on paper, silently but eloquently.  When she'd gotten the case, his name had struck a chord in her, and she'd gone home to examine her large and eclectic collection of books, most of them in the same pristine condition that they'd come to her home in.  She always intended to read, but somehow never managed to get around to it.

   It'd taken fifteen minutes of searching, but she'd finally found a copy of _The Organ-Grinder's Boy_ that her mother had given her years before.  She'd read the first few chapters, but something had come up – like something always did – and she'd never finished it.  But now she was glad to have it, for no other reason that the insights it might offer into the writer.

   The man certainly had a way of stringing together words in an unique and attention grabbing fashion.  Not that every sentence was written that way.  No, they were hidden among the thoughtful prose like little gems for the reader to find if they took their time.  It'd reminded her of another writing style at first – someone she'd probably had to read in high school or college – but she couldn't remember.  

   _First and foremost__,_ she'd thought, _this man is an author._  And if that were true, he'd probably be more likely to first express himself through this medium than any other.  As far as she was concerned, verbal communication was some ways down the road for him.

   _It's all about baby-steps,_ she thought ironically, making her slow way to the check-in point on the third floor.  The piece of machinery in her arms was heavy, bulky, and dirty.  A relic from the 60's, it'd been consigned to a storage closet, probably by some secretary who'd been too fond of it to throw it out when word processors and computers had moved into the workplace.  But it had ribbon, and all the keys were still intact, and that was all that mattered.

   "Let me help you with that, Dr. Beckham."  Carly found her arms empty as Ralph took the typewriter from her.  She noted that he didn't seem to have any difficulty with how much it weighed.  

   "Thank you," she muttered, nodding to the man's partner as he opened the gate for them.

   "So, what's this antique for?" Ralph enquired as they made their way to Rainey's room.

   "An experiment in giving a man back his voice," she replied, her attention switching to more practical matters when she saw Betty, the nurse, waiting for her.  "Is something wrong?" she asked, coming to stand by the door again.  She peeked in, but didn't see Rainey anywhere.  "Is he back?" she asked with a slight frown.

   "Yes, doctor.  Scrubbed and groomed.  He's in the corner to the left of the door."  She handed over Rainey's chart once again.  "And I'm simply here as a matter of procedure.  A security guard and a nurse have to be present when a doctor is visiting a patient.  And since Rainey never gives anyone trouble anymore, and my shift ends in an hour . . ." the other woman shrugged.

   Carly grinned wryly, but was unhappy with the continued insistence that she couldn't enter the room by herself.  Rainey was totally unresponsive to anything.  He hadn't even reacted when he'd been stripped, doused with water, and had gotten a hair cut and a shave.  She doubted her presence would do much to make him do much more than sit and blink, but she thought that more than one presence would overwhelm him and ensure that he didn't come out of his shell.

_   Time to pull rank,_ she mentally sighed.  "I want the two of you to stay outside.  Leave the door open if you have to, but I want to talk  to him alone."  Her companions both opened their mouths to object.  "That's an order," she said sternly.  "If Dr. Marchman had as problem with protocol being ignored, he can address his complaints to my boss.  Until then, I will treat this man as I see fit."  Carly took the typewriter back.  "Now, if you'll open the door for me?"

   She had to stand and wait for several seconds while Ralph and Betty seemed to have a silent debate whether to bow to her orders or not, but they finally did, and Carly stepped into the room, much relieved at the fake piney scent of cleaning fluid and disinfectants.  Not to mention the fact that behind the thick bars on the window, the ivy that dominated the back of the facility had been cleared away so that sun came into the room.

   "Hello, Mort," she said in a soft voice, setting the typewriter down on the table.  "My name is Carly Beckham, and I'm going to be visiting you every now and then."  There was no answer, but she didn't expect one.  Instead, she sat down in a nearby chair and put a piece of paper into the typewriter.  She slowly typed what she'd just said, then advanced the paper so it was visible.  Then she got up and went to sit on the wall opposite Rainey, watching him carefully.  He ignored her.

   She made a few notes.

   He ignored her.

   Carly wrote a list of some background information she needed to gather on him.

   He ignored her.

   She hummed softly to herself as she took in his clean appearance.

   He ignored her . . . and eventually fell asleep.

   Standing with a sigh and a groan, Carly went over to the table and removed the paper she'd written on.  The last thing they needed was for him to think that the words had appeared out of thin air.  That would to lead to who had written them, and beyond that she didn't want to think.  "I'll come back and visit you tomorrow, Mr. Rainey," Carly said as she left.  The typewriter and paper were where she left them.  So was Rainey.

************************************************************************

With a tired sigh, Carly let herself into her small house, that evening.  Kicking off her shoes and settling down her briefcase, she groaned.  It'd taken her an hour to leave the office because the nurse who'd been responsible for letting Rainey get into the stated he'd been in earlier, and gone straight to the big-wigs when she'd been informed that she was being placed on leave pending a referral hearing.  And she'd been called down to explain her actions.  Most of the staff on the third floor ward were now not happy with her, but Carly couldn't bring herself to care.

  Looking down, she noticed that her cat was twining itself around her legs.  Carly laughed, knowing it had less to do with her being glad her mistress was home, and more to do with the proximity of dinner.  "Yes, I hear you, Bast.  Just give me a moment, would you?"  The cat meowed at her.  "Yes, I hear you," Carly assured her.  "Well, come on then."  She headed back towards the kitchen and filled the cat's bowl.  Bast immediately settled down to eat, purring contentedly.  "I wish some people were as easy to please," Carly murmured, watching her pet.

   Shaking her head, she turned and went to her bedroom, changing into a long-sleeved thermal shirt and a pair of pajama pants.  Spring might be the reining champion for the latest daytime weather, but the nights still felt distinctly chilly.

   After finding her slippers, Carly went back into the kitchen and threw a microwaveable meal into the small appliance, setting the time.  Once her dinner was cooking, she went back to the front door and dug through her briefcase for her files.  Despite having spent half her day with Rainey, or arranging things for him, she'd seen three other patients, two of them new to Briar Ridge.  Both were self-admitted, one for depression and an attempted suicide, and the other for extreme obsessive-compulsive disorder.  She thought Nate – the man with ob-com – might be able to go home in a few weeks, but Shirley was going to take a bit more time.

   Bringing these files to the table, Carly fetched her laptop from the desk in her small den, then got her dinner.  Taking a seat, she typed up transcripts of her talks with the two new patients, and listened to her recording of a session with a patient who'd been admitted, but was now just receiving therapy once every five days.

   By the time she'd finished her meal, had dessert, and drunk her first cup of coffee, she was ready to move on to Rainey.  It was a habit of hers to get the smaller tasks out of the way so she could focus on the tough patients.  And she had the feeling that Rainey was going to be a puzzle.

   Stretching, she got up from the table and went to pour herself another cup of coffee.  Her limit for the night was three cups, and she intended on drinking all of them.  Since she'd stopped drinking, she'd become a bit of a caffeine hound, but she decided that was better than becoming a chain smoker.

   Settling back down, Carly started by taking a closer look at Rainey's records.  Graduated from Bates college, majored in creative writing.  Married for ten years, holding down a steady job for part of that time, then writing full-time the rest.  Works included _The Organ-Grinder's Boy, The Delacourt Family,_ and another half a dozen-short and long form stories.  The most notable of the short stories – there was even a Xerox of the it in the file – was one called 'Sowing Season.'  The story that had managed to send Rainey to Briar Ridge.

   _Mrs. Amy Rainey, the ex-wife of the interred, states that Mr. Mort Rainey suffered a minor nervous breakdown sometime in 1996.  Though eventually proved false, there were some allegations of plagiarism surrounding the circumstances of his breakdown. . . ._  The rest of the report was cut and dried, and bored Carly to death.  Her colleagues said she de-humanized people in order to treat them.  Her opinion was, how could she not when she had to read these three page condensed manifests of what had once been someone's life.

   Turning the page, Carly looked over the visitor record that she'd had the third-floor office print off for her.  It listed everyone who entered the ward to visit the patients, and she had pages covering the eight-month span that Rainey had been at Briar Ridge.  Picking up a highlighter, Carly went through and highlighted every visitation he'd received, coming up with some interesting results.  For the first five months, there were records of regular visits by Rainey's ex.  They drastically dropped off a little over two months ago.  She penned herself a note: _Why the change?_  Was it because Rainey's mental state had deteriorated, or something else?  Or had Mrs. Rainey simply wanted to move on with her life?  _Ask Leo to find address,_ she wrote to herself.  If time permitted and circumstances called for it, she'd try to visit with Mrs. Rainey.  Any insights could be helpful.

   _What I need to find out is –  She_ jumped as Bast jumped up onto the table with a quiet meow.  "What?  Am I ignoring the cat?"  Carly reached over and started to scratch her pet's ears.  "You're getting spoiled, you know that?  You're not supposed to be on the table, sweetie."  With one hand, she moved the cat back to the floor.

   Her train of thought now lost, Carly turned to the next page in Rainey's file.  This was the part that she really hadn't wanted to get to.  _Steve's diagnoses,_ she thought with a sigh, staring blankly at the page.  _But first . . . one more cup of coffee._  But even that couldn't keep her from this forever.  Doctors in her field rare liked to contradict a colleague's findings, especially when working in the same office as that person – but something didn't feel right about this one.  Steve had made the most logical connections from the symptoms that had displayed, and in most cases he might be right . . . but she didn't think he was this time.  And the State of Maine would be failing Rainey severely if they let the "right answers" blind them.

   Reading over the findings and justifications and wherefores and whatnots, Carly became more and more unsure about this diagnoses.  _Psychotic depression bordering on schizophrenia with a dash of post-traumatic stress disorder thrown in for seasoning._  It sounded good.  It sounded logical.  To most it would sound unsurprising and _right_ . . . but people with psychotic depression didn't go around killing people.  Nor did people with schizophrenia.  _Violence against others is **not** a symptom of schizophrenia,_ she thought.  _If they're violent, it's usually directed towards themselves._

   But what could she do?  Without talking directly to Rainey, without hearing his account of what had happened that week in Northern Maine, then she had no grounds to refute any of what was written here.  None.

_   So what do I do now?_ she asked herself as she stared blankly at her computer screen.

   It stared blankly back.

   _Simple.  I convince him to talk._

************************************************************************

**Disclaimer:**  Everything created by Stephen King belongs to him.  Which includes at this point: Mort, Amy, Briar Ridge, _The__ Organ-Grinder's Boy, The Delacourt Family, _and 'Sowing Season.'  They're not mine, but I enjoy playing with them.

**Author's Thanks:**  thanks go to . . . .  **Dawnie****-7** (well, that's not how he got treated every day.  It was a 'this only happened once, but that's too many' sort of thing.  I'm glad you like Carly, she's a bit of a handful that one.  : P); **Waking Dream** (Well, I'm glad you don't see too much of Tess in Carly.  They'll eventually end up different people, but the starting point here _is_ much the same as the one in 'More Than Eyes'.  And yes, Don Juan does seem to be coloring this story a bit.  Carly is a bit like a female Jack.  ^_^); **SS** (I hope you like this chapter, blossom.  ^_^); **Lip Balm** (Well, I don't think I need a can of water quite yet.  : P  I hope you approve of Mort in this chapter.  At the moment he's a hard guy to get a handle on because he's not talking yet. *laughs*); **CaptainJackSparrowsGirl** (I'm glad you're finding this interesting.  Here's Mort, I just hope it was up to your expectations.); **iLuV*****rAiNeY*daYz** (I'm glad that this plot isn't too clichéd yet.  I thought it might be, but I like turning clichés on their ears.  That's what I did with my first OUATIM story, and I thought I might be able to do the same here.  Although, I admit that I haven't read a whole lot of stories in this section yet.); **Merrie** (Yeah, you keep telling yourself that about Jeffrey.  ; )  Don't worry about the other stories.  'More Than Eyes' was coming rather slowly anyway, and there's no way you'd let me avoid writing MTD.  Or that I'd want to.); **Depp n Em Fanatic** (Hey, HF.  Why am I not surprised by your name here?  *grins*  No, not wrong to be thinking of Don Juan during the meeting, because that's what _I_ was thinking of.  For a moment, I kept seeing a female version of Jack.  *it really wasn't pretty*  : P ); **Dangerbabe** (mentor mine!  As for Nurse Ratchet, I knew she's from something, but I've no idea what.  Must be before my time.  *yes, I'm evil*); **smoochies221** (I'm glad that this one is different than other stories.  I always strive for a bit of creativity, and I sometimes succeed.  ^_^  And yes, poor Mort.  I'll have to work on him.); **Cayenne Pepper Powder** (It'd take a bit to miss an update because there's a looooooong time between them.  But I am glad you got the chance to read and review.); **Ibi** (I'm trying to hurry, I really am.  But you know what you get when you hurry the writing process?  BAD WRITING.  ^_^  I'm glad you liked my OUATIM fics.  They're fun, but different than this, so this is a bit of a change of pace for me.); **DeppsCoStar** (AH!  Side-kick mine!  I hope you enjoyed this installment, chica.); **normal human being** (what are you talking about?  This was coherent.  I'm glad that you've gotten to see SW.  Thanks for the warning that Carly is sounding a bit like Tess.  I _do_ want to avoid that, because as dear as Tess is, she's got a fic and needs to stay out of this one.  Feel free to let me know if you see Carly becoming too much of a clone.)


	4. Chapter Three

**Author's Note:**  Hmm, it's been awhile since I posted, but I trust that you won't be disappointed by this chapter.  In my opinion, it was worth the wait.  Let me know what you think.  ; )

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-   -   -   -   -   -   -   -   -

"Is it just me, or is Rainey in that same spot every time I come?"  The small conference that took place outside of Rainey's room had become something of a ritual in the past two weeks.  Carly used the time to talk to nurses or guards who'd dealt with the man in the past twenty-four hours, and to gather her mind before entering the room.  And for the past two weeks, she'd arrived to find Rainey in the exact same position as she'd left him in – huddled in the corner to the left of the door.  Logically she knew he got up to eat occasionally, and take care of other business, but it seemed as if he were as patient and unyielding as stone, always silent.  Unmovable.

   Betty simply shrugged at the question.  "That's all he does since his violent behavior stopped.  Before the windows were uncovered, he sat against the far wall where he could watch the door.  Now he sits over there."

   That stuck Carly as odd.  "Does he ever go near the window now?"

   "No doctor.  He doesn't move at all unless forced to.  And even then he doesn't seem to be aware of it."

   "Hmm."  Carly made a few notes on his chart, then looked to Bill, the guard who shared duties over this part of the ward with Ralph.  "I'm ready to go in now."

   The man shrugged, used to her orders to stay behind.  He didn't like them – if she were injured it could mean his job whether she took the blame on herself or not – but didn't bother arguing.  The doctor was unflappable and as stubborn as a twenty year old tree stump.  She wouldn't be moved.

   Carly knew something of what he thought, but shrugged it off.  He wasn't her problem or her responsibility.  Rainey was.

   _And speaking of Rainey._  As Carly entered the room, she gave her now standard greeting.  "Hello, Mort.  How are you today?"  And like every other day that she'd come up to the third floor, she received no answer from the man.  Setting her clipboard and papers on the table, she went to the typewriter and wrote the same message there.  No response.

_   This isn't working,_ she told herself for the tenth time in the past two weeks.  Not that she was ready to give up.  Attempts at establishing verbal communication had been failing for months, so she didn't think it was necessarily time to give up yet . . . but there had to be some change she could make that would speed things along.

   Shaking her head and acting on a whim, she started typing out her dilemma:

**Problem – patient has withdrawn into his own world to the point where no communication can be made.  Ignores all attempts to draw him into conversation or everyday life.**

   She looked up for a moment and observed the pale blue huddle in the corner – since grooming him a week ago, the orderlies were obviously taking her demands of hygiene seriously.  The man was clean-shaven, and his hair appeared to be damp.

**While his first months at Briar Ridge were characterized by violence directed towards himself and others, he is now completely passive, allowing others to bathe, feed, and care for him.**

   The quiet sound of keys hitting paper and the soft ding of the carriage as it moved with Carly's words filled the small room, and she unconsciously began concentrating on it, having always loved the sound of the little arms hammering away at the paper.  She typed slowly, just so she could hear each individual impact.

**Solution – all solutions that have been tried have been **

**unsuccessful**** with setting up a dialogue with the patient.  However, all attempts at establishing communication have been verbal as of this point.  I hope to find success by using the means of communication which the patient is most familiar with – the written word.  This has been a resounding failure as of now, but I sdfklujso**

   Carly failed to finish her sentence for the simple reason that she was suddenly aware of someone hovering over her.  Raising her eyes from the paper, she looked towards Rainey's corner.  It was empty.

   "Hello," she said and typed at the same time, wanting to make some sort of connection between the two in Mort's mind.  She froze as a pair of arms came up around her and the door to the room opened.  One arm flew up to halt whoever was trying to intervene, while the other slowly backed away from the keys.

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-   -   -   -   -   -   -   -   -

Mort knew his room had changed, and he didn't like it.  He couldn't identify what was different – couldn't manage to rouse the interest to find out – but he did know he didn't like the change.  Not at all.  He tried to stay away from it, avoid it, hide from it.  And for the most part he succeeded, escaping to the bland and featureless vistas of his own mind, nothing but his own occasional thoughts for company, unaware and uncaring of the days that passed.

   Yet, this silence was occasionally interrupted by a light tapping, that was familiar and annoying at the same time.  For all he could remember, it usually stopped after a period of time, leaving him be for what was possibly a day before returning.  But this time it was different.  This time the tapping went on and on, disrupting his carefully crafted isolated silence, making him wonder if he were imagining things, losing his mind, losing himself within his mind.

   But to find out, he'd have to surface.

   And that would be painful.

   But could he afford not to?

   The fight to disentangle himself from his own mind took some time, but with each minute that passed, the tapping and the quiet rings of what sounded like a bell grew louder and louder.  His own mind no longer muffled the sounds, drowning them out until they no longer had enough clarity to interest him.

   While his eyes had been open, and while they usually were during the day, Mort squinted as be became aware of the light in the room.  Closing pained eyes, he listened the sound trying to identify it.  It was _so_ familiar . . . but he couldn't place it without the use of his eyes.

   Opening his eyelids slowly, Mort looked around the room he found himself in.  It was completely unfamiliar, small, dim, and cheerless.  His mind shied away from comparing it to his house or his cabin, unable to deal with the images that would raise.  He didn't know why, he just knew he didn't want to push.

   Moving his gaze almost mechanically, Mort searched for the source of the noise.

   _Amy!_

   _No._

_   A trick._

   There was a woman at the table, head bent over a . . . a . . .

   _. . .typewriter. . ._

   . . . over a typewriter.  His eyes had tricked him for a moment, making him believe that his wife . . .

   _. . . ex-wife . . ._

. . .was in the room.  But he didn't know this woman.  Nothing about her was familiar.  Just like the room.  And the clothing that rubbed at his knees as he stood.

   The floor was cold on his bare feet, shooting pins and needles of sensation up his legs, through his spine, to his head.  But the sound of typing drew him on.  He had to find out if the woman was real or if he was imagining her.

   Pausing over her shoulder, he reached out to touch her, but couldn't bring himself to do it.  The thought that his hand would go through her, or that she might disappear altogether was too hard to bear.  Better to wait.  Better to hope he was sane for as long as he could.

   Instead, he read over her shoulder, his eyes focusing on the words for only seconds before skipping away, not used to having to focus for so long.  What he managed to read only confirmed his doubts though.

**Problem – patient has withdrawn . . . ignores . . . everyday life . . . characterized by violence . . . **

   As he read, he leaned over the woman's shoulder, trying to understand what she was saying.  He knew she was talking about her, but his inability to make out all the words was frustrating.

**. . .all solutions that have been tried have been unsuccessful . . . a resounding failure as of now, but I sdfklujso**

   As he'd read, Mort had leaned over to far and his shadow fell across the page.  The typing stopped.  He waited.  Waited for the woman to scream.  To flee.  To disappear.  To prove that he was either insane or unsafe.

   But she did none of these.  He watched the keys move as she slowly typed **h-e-l-l-o.**

   That single word unleashed an overwhelming need to communicate.  To communicate what, he wasn't sure.  The need was so strong that it felt like madness, but that's not what he wanted.  He wanted confirmation.  Either way, he _needed_ to know.

   Raising his arms – not touching her but trapping her all the same – Mort typed: **w-h-o-?**

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Carly swallowed hard as she watched the word appear in front of her.  Looking over at Rainey's arm, she motioned for Betty, Steve, and two amazed orderlies to leave the room.  They did – reluctantly – but left the door open.

  Turning back to the typewriter, Carly slowly spoke as she wrote.  "I'm . . . Carly.  I'm . . . a . . . doctor . . . do you . . . know . . . where . . . you are?"

   **not**** . . . home.**

   "No . . . not . . . home . . . you're . . . in a . . . hospital . . . you . . . were . . . hurt."  _You're still hurt._  And while surgeons had the easy job of patching the man up physically, and shipping him here, she had the harder task of helping him piece his psyche back together.

   Hesitantly, the man standing behind her typed a single word: **a-m-y**

   "Amy . . . is . . ."  What was his ex-wife?  She'd never met the woman personally, although she still meant to.  ". . . fine."

   **s-c-a-r-e-d******

   "Of . . . what?"

   **i**** . . . hurt . . . amy**

"She's . . . alright . . . she . . . tried to . . . visit . . . you."  She couldn't believe this was working, that she was communicating with a man who'd been withdrawn for so many months.

   **not**** . . . myself**

   "Now?"

   **then**** . . . later . . . never** 

   Suddenly terrified of what he was capable of, of what the flashes in his mind were showing him, Mort knew that this woman – real or not – couldn't stay.  _No more death._  Real or imagined, he'd seen too much.

   Somehow his mind managed to connect the woman's presence here with the typewriter, and he knew – _knew_ – that if he got rid of it, she'd leave too.

   -_CRASH!-_  Carly was stunned when Rainey shoved the typewriter off the table with an anguished groan.  The orderlies outside the door once again jumped to her "rescue" and she once again waved them off.  As the crash faded, she pondered what had caused the noise to escape him.  Had it simply been the effort of pushing the heavy machine onto the floor?  Rainey wasn't a large man, and his incarceration had doubtlessly seen him loose weight.  But she doubted that was it.  Rainey was a tortured man, and his last sentence had indicated, or at least made her believe, that he didn't think his hold on reality was very firm.  _Mental anguish,_ she thought, certain that was the cause of his groan.

   Disappointed and elated at the same time, Carly watched as Rainey shuffled back to his corner.  It was a hard thing to watch, but she had hope.  They'd made progress today.  More than had been made in all the months that he'd been here.

   Standing, she moved to examine the typewriter.  As well built as it'd been, it hadn't survived it's rough treatment . . . which didn't bode well for giving the man a laptop.  As she carefully removed the sheet of paper that held their abbreviated conversation, she thought, _The__ next step is to get him to communicate again.  In any manner.  If I can get him to consistently do that, then we'll try the laptop.  If he's not speaking by then._  But until then, she had to get something the man could write with.  That wouldn't cost as much to replace.

   "Can one of you get me a box of crayons?" she asked suddenly, turning towards the orderlies.

   They looked at each other, but the younger one shrugged and walked off, returning five minutes later with a twelve pack of Crayolas.  Carly took them and set them next to the pile of paper that had originally been intended for the ruined typewriter.

   Glancing around the room one last time, Carly gave her now customary parting statement.  "I'll come back and visit you tomorrow, Mr. Rainey."  She got no response, but then, she hadn't been expecting on either.

   "Doctor.  That was amazing," Betty breathed as she came back out into the hallway.

   "It was a matter of time and patience."  Carly didn't want premature praises.  "When he talks, then you can give me due credit."  As they tried to close the door behind her, she stopped them, directing one of the orderlies, "What's left of the typewriter can just be thrown in the trash.  I –"

   "Admitting defeat, Beckham?"

   Carly sighed in frustration, then turned to her colleague with a extremely fake smile pasted on her face.  "Steve!  What's wrong?  Professional jealousy dogging you again?"  His superior smirk dropped.  "For your information, I just conversed with your former patient."  She held up the half-page of writing as proof. 

   He came closer to examine the sheet.  When he met her eyes again, she could see dislike and disbelief in them.  "And just how do you intend to prove –"

   From the corner of her eye, she saw two orderlies carrying out broken bits of the typewriter that'd died for medicine.  _He threw his voice away,_ she realized suddenly, not liking the symbolic representations of that thought.  Tucking the paper away, Carly was suddenly ready to be far away from this floor and this man and this conversation.  "I don't have to, Steve.  Half the staff in the ward was standing outside the door.  Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got my lunch break coming up."  Without a backwards glance, she set off, desperate to get outside and away from all of this.

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After grabbing her sack lunch from her locker, Carly made her way outside to the sprawling gardens that took up nearly half an acre of land behind Briar Ridge.  Spring had finally hit, and she was determined to make the most of it. 

   Once she reached her favorite bench – the one nearly underneath the willow tree and next to the pond – she sat down and immediately took off her sneakers and socks, desperate to feel the ground beneath her.  Sighing as her toes met cool grass, she pulled out her turkey sandwich and her green salad, determined to eat and put everything but the vista before her out of her mind.  She only got a half an hour for lunch, and she didn't intend to brood on Rainey and Steve the entire time.  The former was going to require extreme amounts of concentration, and the latter would upset her digestion.

   Halfway through her sandwich, a shadow fell over her.  She didn't bother turning around; if it was a patient, then there'd be another shadow, the one belonging to their doctor or orderly.  And if it was a self checked-in patient, then they wouldn't be in this part of the gardens.  It was too solitary.

   "S'bout time you made it out here."

   "Well, let's say that things got so bad inside, I had no choice but to seek refuge here."  Carly turned as Todd, the ancient gardener, took a seat beside her.

   Minutes went by without a reply from the old man.  Shaking her head, Carly turned her head to look at him.  "It won't work you know."

   "What won't work?"

   "I'm not going to crack open and spill my guts just because you're too polite – or more likely too stubborn – to ask what's on my mind."  Todd didn't say anything.  "It's not even really something I _should_ be talking about with anyone.  For some reason people look down on sharing confidential information about patients.  Even ones that refuse to admit they have a life, or that they would if they'd take the help being offered them."

   "What's wrong?  One of your patients refusing the help of Briar Ridge's 'wonder shrink'?"

   Carly looked at her companion sourly.  "That was hitting a bit below the belt, don't you think?"

   "Sometimes we all need a good sucker punch to make us pay attention."

   Carly didn't exactly appreciate the sentiment, but couldn't deny its truth either.  "I just . . . I just don't think that the environment that my patient is being kept in, is conducive to any sort of recovery," she said carefully.  Just because Rainey was (mostly) withdrawn and (mostly) uncommunicative, didn't mean she couldn't get sued or have her license pulled for spilling details.  "But I don't think that the higher-ups will allow me to move him to another ward either."  _Not without proof that he's making progress.  More than a simple sheet of paper._

   "Well, if he was in the part of the building that had its windows covered by that blasted ivy, then I'd say that you've already made some improvements to his environment."

   "But that's just it.  From what the nurses and orderlies have told me, while the window was covered, he went near it every single day.  But now that it's not, he's avoiding it.  And I'm not sure why."  She laughed and slouched on the bench.  "If I didn't think he was terrified of the sun or something, I'd gladly bring him out here and turn him over to you for a few hours each day."  Her eyes automatically found the patient-run gardens on the other side of the grounds.  There were four or five people toiling there that she could see, and one even seemed familiar.  "Who is that man in the green baseball hat?"

   Todd looked over.  "Oh, that's Michael.  You remember him.  He's the reason you talked me into letting amateurs mess around in my gardens in the first place."

   Carly nodded.  Yes.  She remembered Michael.  He had acute paranoid schizophrenia . . . but he _loved_ the gardens.  With the help of medication and regular therapy, he'd moved out of the center and into a halfway home.  "What's he doing here?"  If he'd been sent back for some reason, surely she would have been told.

   "He applied for a part-time job three months ago, and we hired him.  He's been asking when you'll come to the gardens."

   "And what did you tell him?"  Putting her trash back into her lunch sack, Carly crumpled it into a ball, wadding it back and forth between her hands.

   "I told him that you had other people to help and that you'd be out when you could."

   "How'd he take it?"  While Michael had been her patient, he'd often been paranoid that when she left him, it was because she couldn't stand him anymore, not because she'd had other patients to see.  An eighteen-year-old boy, he'd had severe self-esteem problems on top of his condition.  Some of the other doctors had teased that he'd been sweet on her.

   "He didn't like it, but he didn't make a fuss either.  He's a good worker that one."

   Carly nodded, then looked at her watch.  She reluctantly got to her feet and stretched.  "Back to the daily grind for me, I'm afraid.  Tell Michael hello for me, and that I'll try to come see him when I can."

   "Will do."

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Carly was halfway to a group therapy session with some of the day patients, when an idea struck her.  Turning about-face, she nearly ran into one of the interns.  Michelle was a nice enough woman – if a bit wary of anyone with and M.D. or Ph.D. after their name – and had worked with Carly before.

   "Michelle, I have to go upstairs and talk to Dr. Marchman.  Can you handle my therapy group for me?  It's for a group of day OCD patients."

   "I don't know, Dr. Beckham.  I promised to meet some of my friends for lunch . . ."

   "Please.  I promise to try to hurry, and I need to catch Marchman now.  He'd been putting in half days for a couple years now, and I have to talk to him _today._  It's about one of his patients that's been added to my caseload recently."  She saw the other woman was wavering.  "I'll cover one of your groups if you need time off to study, or I can help you on your graduate thesis, or even talk to that pharmacist you've had your eye on.  Please, just do this for me."

   "Okay . . ."

   "Thank you!"  Without another word, Carly sprinted for the elevator.

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-   -   -   -   -   -   -   -   -

"I'm sorry, Dr. Beckham, but there's nothing I can do to help you.  It's completed unheard of to allow a violent patient – especially one that stands to be convicted of murder – out of his ward just on the basis of a single conversation.  And an abbreviated one at that."  Rick Marchman leaned back in his chair, irritated that this woman had come barreling into his office just forty-five minutes before he was going to leave.  And even more annoying than the fact that she was here, was the fact that she refused to leave.

   "But what evidence do you have that he's a danger?  Or that he'll be convicted?" Carly asked coolly, trying to match this man's level of unenthusiastic boredom.  "I'm no lawyer, but as far as I can tell, the evidence linking him to the two murders at least, is circumstantial.  Even his ex testified that no one in the neighborhood their lake home was in ever locked their doors.  Anyone could have gotten those tools from his shed."  She shrugged.  "The evidence that he did burn down his own house is a bit more damning, but you and I both know that violent outbursts directed towards others is not a symptom of schizophrenia, and that the occurrence of _premeditated_ murder is even less likely."

   "You're young," Marchman patronized.  "I admit that you know your statistics and diagnoses and treatments, but madness is not always logical or consistent.  So Rainey is the one schizo in one thousand who _is_ violent towards others.  It wouldn't be the first time something like that has happened, and it won't be the last.  I'm afraid I have to deny your request."

   "Why?"  Carly knew she was stepping close to the line of insubordination, but she didn't care.  She couldn't heal a man who refused to let go of his illness.  And if she wanted to tempt him out, she had to get him out of his high security prison.  "Why condemn the man before the State has decided his fate?  Innocent until proven guilty, remember?  And how is he even supposed to testify in his defense if he won't come out of his shell?"

   "You don't need to move him to make progress.  You've already proven that."  Marchman waved her own sheet of evidence at her.  "Besides, you don't know if this is nothing more than a fluke.  Ten words.  You get the man to type ten words, and you're convinced that he's ready to be around dozens of other people."  Rubbing his bald head, he tried to talk some sense into the woman in front of him.  "Has it even occurred to you that Rainey is in isolation for his own sake as well for the sake of our staff and other patients?  If nurse Ratchet's report is accurate," he picked up another sheet of paper and adjusted his glasses.  "Mr. Rainey violated the personal space of Dr. Beckham, though she waved the orderlies off.  He then proceeded to have a typed conversation with the doctor – lasting approximately ten minutes – before becoming visibly frustrated.  In a burst of what appeared to be irrational terror, he destroyed the typewriter by shoving it off the table, before returning to his state of withdrawal."  He laid the piece of paper back on the desk.  "She goes on to say that Rainey's 'irrational terror' could have easily enough turned him against you.  And he could have done considerable damage before the orderlies got there to stop him."

   "No.  You're wrong."  Carly picked up her original conversation.  "Look here," she pointed with an adamant finger, "Rainey is terrified of hurting someone.  _Look_.  This is remorse he's showing about the possibility that he did his ex harm.  I'd say that shows –"

   "I appreciate your enthusiasm, Dr. Beckham, but my answer is still no.  Rainey will stay in the third floor ward until –" Carly opened her mouth to argue, but he overrode her.  "_Until he shows more improvement._"  Carly's mouth snapped shut, much to the elder doctor's approval.  "If you can get Rainey to communicate _consistently_ with you over the course of three weeks, and if he doesn't display any more violent outbursts, then I'll consider moving him to the second floor ward."

   "That's not fair," Carly quickly countered.  "Even patients on the second floor are periodically violent."

   "Then Mr. Rainey had best be no more than 'periodically violent' or I'll reconsider moving him at all."  Carly chewed on her lip, knowing that this was as close to compromise as she was likely to get.  "I trust that this is acceptable, Dr. Beckham."  They both knew that it didn't matter whether it was or not, but Carly still nodded.  "Very well, then you are excused."

   Collecting her things, Carly nodded to her superior, and left the room.  She managed to wait until she reached the elevator before giving a sigh of relief.

   That had gone better than she'd thought it would.

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**Author's Thanks:  **wow, there's a lot of people to thank this time around, so stick with me.

**Merrie** (Sure, brag about the spell checker why don't you.  : P  I hope there was enough Mort in here to suit you – for the moment.  Don't worry, he'll start to appear more and more now that I've gotten him out of his shell once.); **Dawnie****-7** (thanks, I thought it was brilliant if I do say so myself.  ; )  I hope you liked this chapter just as much – if not more – than the last.); **SS** (you're right, I do worry too much.  But look at what it gets me.  ; )  And yes, I've got buckets and buckets of Mort just waiting to be poured out, so don't you worry none about that, pilgrim.); **pandagal** (Why is Amy ignoring him?  Well, I plan to get into that eventually.  I still plan to bring her into the story a bit.  And Mort will talk when he's ready, and not a moment before.  He's a bit too stubborn for me to force him to do it, no matter how weak he appears at the moment.); **Lip Balm** (I do.  Flowers are very nice, and I figured that little details like that would make Carly a bit more real.  Tess likes to quote things, Carly likes flowers.  There we go.  I'm very glad that nothing is lagging.  Nothing is worse than lagtime in a fic – I know, because I've done it.  Not only does it frustrate me, but it bores readers, and I really don't want to do that.  As for what's wrong with Mort?  I've yet to state it.  winks); **Ashley/WakingDream** (I'm very glad that she's not Tess.  After writing that character for so long, I can imagine that it might be a little hard to _stop_ writing her.  As for the PotC quote?  I don't remember writing it, but it's entirely possible that I'm unconsciously quoting the movie.  I've seen it enough times.  And yes, please send my any quotes you might have.  I'm struggling to work the 'death' ones back in, because that is something that, believe it or not, Sands appreciates about her.  Not that he'd admit it to anyone but himself, and even that would be a fight.); **smoochies221** (Yes, progress.  It'll be made, but it'll be realistically slow.  I'm not one for miraculous recoveries, because then I feel obliged to cause relapses, and that's just a bit more angst than I really want.); **Nithke** (No, not overly lustful.  That can be saved for the home – or whatever.  Besides, he's not a guy to inspire a whole lot of lust at the moment.  But he is clean, and that is a start.); **Cayenne Pepper Powder** (I'm glad you're finding parts of this humorous.  It'd be boring otherwise, and I want to be anything but boring.); **Kinina** (It didn't differ a whole lot – just some minor points/characters, and the _entire ending!!!_  Sorry, still a bit upset over that.  I was really looking forward to watching Johnny/Mort die.  And I haven't read any Steven King, except for 'Secret Window, Secret Garden.'  I'm glad that she's well rounded, because that is something I strive for.  And yes, Don Juan.  He seemed to sneak in the back door or something, because I didn't really intend to add him.); Emma (I hoped I updated fast enough for you, but I suspect I didn't.  Sorry, must be the perfectionist in me.); **normal human being** (lol.  I definitely want to mother Mort, but if I think 'fleece' means what I think it does, I might not mind that either.  No, don't feel bad about re-reading.  At this point, it's sort enough that I re-read the entire thing to coughprocrastinatecough get back into character, so to speak.  And I'm glad that I'm pulling Carly away from Tess.  We'll call it a hat trick if I can do as well with the 'From Hell' fic I'm planning to eventually write.); **Dark-Soul-Pirate** (lol, I was mad when the movie ended too, but only because Mort didn't die.  I wanted him too.  I'm a bit of a purist, and really wanted the ending to match that of the book.  Oh well.  At least it opened up the possibility of 'what if?' so I could write this fic.  I'm just sort of mashing them together.  Thanks for the complements.)


	5. Chapter Four

**Author's Note:** sorry this took so long to get out, but the introduction of a new character (especially one that isn't mine), always takes awhile for me to write. But I'm happy with how she turned out, I think. The next chapter might take awhile too, because I'm going to have to write a lot of it from Mort's POV I think, and that's hard to do when your character can't speak yet. So be patient, and send lots of encouragement (REVIEWS!!!! ).

* * *

Glancing down at the paper in her hand, Carly confirmed that she had the right address. 2436 Nachtmere, Derry. The house she found herself looking at was on the small side, and painted a light, dove grey. But it had a tidy yard, flower gardens just starting to fill with spring blooms, and a flagstone walk leading to the door from the . . . _Picket fence. Well, isn't this the very picture of normality._ Truth be told, the house looked as if it would be more in place in Cape Cod or Nantucket.

Carly shook her head and looked back down at the file in her lap. _Amy Rainey. An antiquities broker. Divorced from Mort Rainey in the fall of last year. Engaged to one Ted Milner as of three months ago. _Carly compared these notes with the ones in Rainey's folder. _And that would be around the same time that she stopped visiting Rainey. I wonder if the engagement was a result of her not visiting, or if it was the other way around?_

It'd been a month since she'd gotten Rainey, and two weeks since he'd last communicated, and Carly was getting fed up. She needed more information. Well, one thing was certain; sitting here in her car was not going to get her the answers she was looking for. Sighing, she put her folders and notes back into her briefcase, then climbed out of the car, pulling up her hood as she did so. It might be sunny out, but it was doing nothing to stop the light rain that was falling. _My hair is frizzy enough as it is without actually getting wet,_ she thought darkly.

Striding up the flagstone path, Carly came to the front door which was painted a bright, cheerful blue and had a wreath of dried flowers hanging on it. _Mrs. Rainey must have control of the décor on the premises._ Whether that was by consent or compliance had yet to be seen.

Slipping her hood from her head, Carly knocked on the door, shifting her weight from foot to foot as she waited for someone to answer. It took several seconds, but she finally heard someone approaching.

A man – she assumed the fiancé – opened the door. "Can I help you?"

"Yes, I'm Dr. Carly Beckham." She held out her hand.

"Ted Milner," the man offered, shaking hands with her.

"Pleased to meet you, Mr. Milner. I'm actually here to speak to Mrs. Rainey, though. It concerns her ex-husband."

Ted gave her a long glance, before stepping back to allow her into the house. "Of course. It'll just be a minute."

She gave him a small smile that was full of politeness but no real warmth. "Of course." Milner left, and she surveyed her surroundings. The inside of the house was just as neat and tidy as the outside had been. One of the two people who lived here obviously had the time and desire to clean. _That or they hire a maid and a gardener._ But she didn't think that was really the case. There was simply too much personal debris around for that to be true.

Carly was jolted out of her bland perusal of the house by a crash that came from what sounded like the kitchen. A stack of cookie sheets perhaps, or a punch of those old tin pie plates.

As the sounds of dropped objects died, Carly heard a distraught voice. "Mort! What about Mort! What's wrong? What do you mean she didn't say?" These questions were followed by two pairs of footsteps; one light and quick, one heavier and almost resigned.

She turned in the direction of the footsteps just in time to see a lanky blond woman come into the room. Carly's neutral opinion of her started to waver towards approving when she saw the concern in the other woman's brown eyes. Before she could start with the professional rigmarole again, the ex-missus Rainey interrupted her. "Who are you, and what's wrong with Mort?" The woman's hand was clenching her fianc's enough to make the fingers go pale.

Carly could tell this woman was expecting the worst, and she felt somewhat guilty about not explaining her dilemma right away, but the mores of her profession held her back. "I'm Dr. Carly Beckham. I'm a doctor at Briar Ridge, and I have some questions for you. Your ex-husband has been transferred to my caseload because of his lack of progress since coming to the Ridge." She held out her hand, trying to instill a sense of competence in the clearly shaken woman.

Amy took Carly's hand and gave it a quick shake, relief showing on her face. "Oh my god, I thought you were here because . . . ."

"Mr. Rainey is physically fine, I assure you. I stopped in and saw him this morning before driving here." Shifting her briefcase in her grip slightly, she restated, "I do need to ask you some questions though, regarding a course of treatment I'm considering." She glanced at Ted, "And I'm afraid that we'll need to speak alone."

"Now wait a minute –"

"I'm afraid I can't, Mr. Milner." Carly raised her chin just enough to exercise professional arrogance. "The reason I'm here is because Mrs. Rainey is still listed as having power of attorney for Mr. Rainey's personal and professional interests. Not only that, but what I need to speak to her about happened over the course of her marriage, so therefore the rules of spousal privilege apply. I'd be violating the law and leaving myself and my employer open to legal action if I didn't ask you to leave."

"It's alright, Ted," Amy said softly, giving his hand a squeeze of reassurance. Milner wavered, but he finally shrugged and left the room. Amy then gestured for Carly to take a seat in the living room. "Ted knows how difficult it is for me to talk about Mort. I still blame myself for what happened. If I'd tried years ago, I might have gotten him to go to counseling, at least marriage counseling."

Carly didn't comment. Instead she opened her bag and pulled out a legal pad and a pen. "Mrs. Rainey –"

"Please, just call me Amy."

Carly nodded, and continued, forcing herself not to wonder about that. "Amy, I appreciate that you're willing to talk to me. Before we start, I'd like to show you this." She handed over the sheet of paper that'd been produced between her and Rainey nearly two weeks ago.

"What is it?" Amy asked, looking at the paper. Carly didn't answer. When the other woman paled and her hands started trembling, Carly knew she'd figured it out. "Oh my god, did Mort write this?"

"Some of it, yes. About two weeks ago. Afterwards, he promptly destroyed the typewriter. I . . . are you alright?" Carly's professionalism quickly turned to concern when tears slipped from the other woman's eyes.

"I . . . Dr. Wright told me that he didn't expect Mort to ever communicate sanely again. And after seeing him . . . watching as the raving turned into silence . . ." she trailed off.

Carly cleared her throat uncomfortably. "Yes, well, that is certainly the most logical conclusion in a case like this. However, I've always seen such . . . diagnoses . . . to be personal challenges."

"Thank you," Amy whispered. "Whether he ever talks or not, I thank you for this. I'd started to believe that he'd died. That he just wasn't there any more." There was silence as Amy regained her composure. She tried to hand the paper back, but Carly wouldn't take it.

"That's a photocopy of our conversation. You're welcome to keep it if you wish." Amy nodded, and set it down next to her chair. "Now, I have some questions about why you stopped visiting your ex-husband three months ago. The visitor's log shows that you had been coming my the Ridge about once every week, but then your visits started to taper off, and finally stopped altogether. Can you tell me why that was?"

Amy shrugged. "I wasn't doing any good."

"But it says here," Carly flipped to the appropriate page, "that in the first month or so of his internment, that you visited even though your presence made him 'violent, manic, and visibly disturbed,' and that the episodes lasted well after you left."

"Yes . . . I don't know who Mort was then, but he wasn't the man I married. I could look in his eyes . . . and he just wasn't _there._ Perhaps I was hoping that someday, if I came enough, that one day I'd look into his eyes and he _would_ be there."

Carly thought there was more to it than that, an element of self-punishment or repentance perhaps, but it was none of her business. After making a brief note, she asked, "So when he started to withdraw . . . ?"

"It was just too much. It was worse even than someone else being . . . being behind his eyes. He just became _blank._ His face, his eyes, everything. And after awhile, he didn't even seem to notice me – or anyone else. Dr. Wright suggested that since seeing Mort like that was upsetting me, and not benefiting him in any way, that I stop." The woman sighed. "And part of me leapt at the chance to be off the hook. I wasn't his wife, he wasn't really my concern." She looked up at Carly then. "I knew that it was wrong – after ten years of marriage, two people just can't become perfect strangers – but life just seemed to conspire to keep me away. And when it let up, I was afraid to go back. It hurt too much to see a man who survived on his intellect loose touch with reality so thoroughly."

"Mmm . . ." Carly made several more notes, then looked up. "Now, what I'm going to ask is probably going to be difficult for you, but when did you first notice that Mr. Rainey was not quite himself, and what was going on? I know you've answered this question before, but I was wondering if you had any other thoughts on it."

"No, not really. I mean, I could see how the divorce was just tearing him down, emotionally. And that's the part I blame myself for, and think 'what-if's' over, but I can't say that I was doing too much better. I know I was, and I credit Ted for that, but . . ." she shrugged. "I was just really concerned for Mort through all that. He was under so much pressure, and I think he was having a really bad case of writer's block – he said something to me about how his mistress had disserted him – but when I saw him . . . he was still _Mort_." Amy shifted in her chair, pulling her legs up under her. "I know I should have said something, should have pressed for details. Mort never wanted to admit it, but he was admitted to the hospital for a few days for a nervous breakdown, but he never wanted to admit that he'd had one. He refused to go to the therapy sessions that the doctors suggested . . . refused to take any medication. Perhaps if I had –"

"'Perhaps' don't help me now," Carly stated gently but firmly. "You said that looking into Mr. Rainey's eyes, that it seemed as if someone else was looking out. Can you explain that? Or at least pinpoint the first time you felt that sensation?"

"I suppose that the first time I can say I say with any certainty that the Mort I knew was gone . . . was . . . was that day in the cabin." Carly didn't bother asking which day she meant. "I'd just talked to him on the phone, and he'd just sounded horrible, like he hadn't gotten sleep in weeks. I asked if there I was anything I could do for him, not expecting him to suggest anything, but he wanted to talk. In person. Alone. I went, even though part of me knew better, but I refused to believe the worst of Mort. He's such a gentle person, that . . ." she laughed. "You probably won't believe me when I say that though." Without giving Carly a chance to reply, she continued. "I went to the cabin and found the place was just a total mess. Mort isn't the neatest person on the face of the planet, but this mess had taken effort to create. Especially since he said the housekeeper had just been there a few days before. I looked around for awhile, trying to find him. When I did . . . that's when I got scared. He was acting so differently. If I hadn't seen him with my own eyes, I never would have recognized him. He didn't even _walk_ the right way. He kept talking about himself in the third person . . . and calling himself S-Shooter." The word came out on a small stutter. "But it was when I saw his eyes that I knew. It wasn't Mort looking out at me. Even during the mess of our divorce, he never once looked at me like that."

"Like what?" Carly asked softly.

"Like he hated me, but pitied me for it." Amy shivered. "There were times I saw loathing in his eyes, but it was always mixed with . . . I don't know, whatever ten years of marriage puts in one's eyes. But this look . . . I don't know. I just ran, and if Mr. Evan's hadn't been there . . ."

"I think that's enough," Carly said, bringing Amy back to the present. She'd been scribbling furiously the entire time, and had gotten a few more theories to explain Rainey's behavior. She'd still need to do some research, but at least she had some confirmation of which direction to go in. "I just have one more question. Actually, it's more of a request." Amy looked at her curiously. "I'd like you to make time in your schedule to come visit Mr. Rainey. Preferably this week, and no later than next."

"I don't know . . ."

"Please. Look for yourself on the paper I gave you. I think that part of the reason for his withdrawal is that he thinks he's been abandoned. That he hurt you enough to keep you from visiting him. At least once. And that's all I'm asking for. After that it'll be up to you whether to come or not."

Amy was silent for several minutes, thinking. "And you think this will help him recover?"

"I think this will help him to at least take an interest in the outside world. And that's half the battle at this point." When Amy slowly nodded her agreement, Carly stood. "Thank you, and again, thank you for seeing me. I won't intrude any longer." Amy walked her to the door, where Carly took out another business card. "Here's my work and home numbers, as well as my pager, e-mail, and the fax number for Briar Ridge. If you can think of anything else that might be of any help, please feel free to get a hold of me, day or night." Amy nodded, and said she would. Carly stepped back out into the wet afternoon and hurried to her car, a bit of hope filling her for the time being.

She'd show Steve.

* * *

"How is he?" Carly asked the question for Amy as they stood outside Mort's room.

"Much the same as yesterday, doctor, although Marie said she saw him eyeing the paper you left for him."

"Hmm." After glancing through the window, Carly stepped back to let Amy look at her ex. She was wrapped in a thick cardigan, and Carly suspected it had more to do with comforting her than keeping her warm.

"He's so pale," the woman whispered. "He used to go out and weed when he was stumped on a particular storyline or something. And he'd go hiking. We both would. With Chico."

"Chico?" Carly asked.

"Our dog. He was getting cataracts, but I could never get Mort to remember to take him to the vet. And then things sort of fell apart. I found a grave, marked for him. I try not to wonder . . . ." Carly didn't ask about what.

After about ten minutes, she shot a glance to Betty and Ralph, motioning them to move down the hallway a little. Betty went – plainly reluctant to do so – but Ralph didn't budge. Carly raised her eyebrows and murmured an excuse to Amy, which she doubted the other woman heard.

Walking down the hall a bit, she waited for Ralph to join her. "What is it?" she asked.

"Well, I know Rainey's history just as well as you do, doctor, perhaps a bit better because I've been in ward when he's lost it. He can get dangerous. I could be fired if I wasn't close enough to stop anything if seein' her makes him go off."

Carly sighed. The man had a point, and no matter how confident she was, there was always room for human error. "Alright, but will you at least stay in the doorway? I don't want to produce too many distractions for him yet. She's going to be enough." Carl nodded his agreement, and they walked back.

"Are you ready to go in?" she asked Amy.

The other woman squared her shoulders. "Yeah. As much as I can be, I think."

"You remember what I said? That he might not react to you at all? That it might be a good idea to visit again if he doesn't?" Amy nodded again. "Alright."

Carly unlocked the door herself, stepping into the room slowly. Rainey was in his usual corner, in his usual position. "Hello, Mort. How are you today?" No response. "I hope you're up to it, but I brought a visitor for you." She waved Amy in, waiting for the blond woman to stand next to her. "See, Mort? It's Amy. You remember Amy, don't you?" Nothing. "You asked about her a little while ago. You wanted to make sure she was alright. Well, here she is." Still nothing but a few slow blinks.

"Go ahead and say hi," she whispered to the woman. "Don't be afraid to get on his level. We're right here . . . just in case."

Amy didn't find that to be too comforting, but she took a few steps towards Mort anyway. "Mort?" He didn't look up from his lap. She moved a little bit closer, and knelt down in front of him. "Mort, I'm sorry I haven't been visiting. I don't like seeing you like this." If only he would respond; look at her, mumble something, move. She'd take anything. "Mort? Can you hear me?" She reached out with a cautious finger and touched the back of his hand.

Carly held her breath.

* * *

**Disclaimer:** Mort, Amy, and Ted all belong to Stephen. Everyone else belongs to me.

**Author Thanks: **thanks go to: **smoochies221** (I'm glad the wait didn't disturb you.); **SS** (Not so much Mort this chapter, but more next, I promise.); **Nithke** (wow. I hope I didn't pull a MS writer on you, but I do tend to switch perspectives while I'm telling a story. But I promise I can still pull off a good story while doing that. Please tell if you think I'm being hokey though – that's not a good thing at all. I updated as fast as I could figure out what to write, so I hope that was fast enough for you.); **Dawnie-7** (why won't they take Carly seriously? Because she's kinda challenging the system. I'm just glad that she got the concessions that she did.); **Lip Balm** (Meow? Jealous? ; ) That's such a Mort-like picture that you described; I can see that too. Outlines are from the devil, but then again, I'm not so sure about writers. Especially the ones that belong to Stephen King. ); **Cayenne Pepper Powder** (eh, I never log in to give reviews. I don't know if I got this one up faster, and I don't know if the next with be speedy either. I suppose we'll have to see.); **pandagal** (I updated as soon as I could.); **Merrie** (Umm, yeah. I'm not sure that review was coherent, but I found it amusing. Is that bad? ); **normal human being** (I thought that was a good line to end on. I knew I needed to end the chapter, but it seemed incomplete. So, that line was born. And yes, beg for the hat trick. It's started. It'll be awhile before I get it up though. I need to develop it a bit more, and my two other stories first. But sooner or later it'll be up.); **Cassie** (Here's the next chapter. Thanks for all the complements, they really made my day and guilted me into thinking about writing.)


	6. Chapter Five

**Author's Note:** I'm so sorry this took so long!!!!! It's hard to get into the head of someone who refuses to talk though, and I hope this makes up for the time it took to write. I won't say anything more here.

Author's thanks at the end.

* * *

The-woman-who-wasn't-Amy wasn't here. He was alone. Mort didn't know how long he'd been alone – whether it'd been minutes or days – but he was alone. He didn't know if this was good or bad. He didn't know why he was alone. He didn't know if he'd hurt someone and if being alone was the punishment.

And frankly, he didn't care.

Oh, he hoped he hadn't _really_ hurt someone, but if that the was price for being alone, he couldn't seem to find it within himself to be upset. After all, he couldn't hurt anyone more than he'd hurt Amy, could he?

But then again, he didn't want to think about that. If he did, then he'd be forced to _really_ think, and that would lead him to feel, and that would drive him insane with guilt. Not that he wasn't insane already. If he'd done what he much have done – after all, how would those men have ended up dead without him? – then he was already lost to reason. But _had_ he done it? He didn't remember, and he didn't want to remember. Being driven mad with guilt had to be more unpleasant than simply choosing to let one's self drift away.

Days, hours, minutes passed. The waking dreams started again. The details of those last few days – what he could remember of them – were etched into his brain. It was never a surprise when Karsch turned up – talking about, "We know what you're doing. We want it to stop. We're watching you." – or Ted showing up with divorce papers, or even Chico rooting away in a corner. He watched them all blankly in his mind's eye, or perhaps with his waking eyes. At first it had been disturbing, and then irritation, and now blasé. He even saw that damn paragraph about George and Abby printed on the walls.

But out of everyone and everything he saw and heard, Amy was never among them. Never. He didn't know if that was a good thing, a bad thing, or just his guilt-ridden and scared mind trying not to think about things that would only upset him.

It was odd how his mind steered away from subjects like Amy. Almost as if a "V chip" had been wired into his brain. The moment he started getting agitated, his mind changed channels on him like a nun flipping past the Playboy channel. Was it simply because his mind was still in shock after the events of the fall, or was it a symptom of something more sinister?

_Had he killed those people?_

He couldn't remember, and in his state that was something of a relief.

The-woman-who-wasn't-Amy was back. Or at least he thought she was. Some indomitable part of his mind hoped she was a hallucination because she was too bossy. And if she wasn't real, then he didn't have to listen. The lethargic, more reasonable part of his mind muffled that hope. He knew something was wrong with him, but embracing it probably wasn't the best course of action. Better to ignore it. Or her. Whatever the case was.

"Hello . . . you today?"

He heard enough of the question to realize what she wanted, but he didn't feel like talking. Language was crude and sloppy, and that was dangerous. Instinctively he knew that it was.

". . . hope . . . to it . . . brought a visitor . . ."

Well, that settled it. He was imagining things. _Or another doctor._ Doctors . . . he thought that perhaps there were a lot in this place that he was. Not that he cared.

". . . Mort? . . . . Amy. You remember . . . you?"

He remembered all too well. The rough grip of a screwdriver in his hand. Her car pulling up into the driveway. A dangerous darkness. A flare of pain. Amy on the ground, bleeding. The terrible knowledge that he'd hurt her. More darkness, but safe this time. He didn't want to remember. That first darkness scared him.

"You asked . . . little while ago . . . wanted . . . she was alright . . . here she is."

He blinked, trying to decode the words of the-woman-who-wasn't-Amy. His wife –

_ex-wife___

– was here? He blinked again, his mind racing to wrap itself around the concept. He had memories, terrible ancient memories, of her coming to this place. Memories of dreams of her trying to speak to him, and he couldn't hear her words over the screaming in his head.

Perhaps he had seen her in his waking dreams. Why would someone visit a person who'd terrorized them? But despite his doubts, the blond woman who appeared was his –

_not__ yours_

– Amy.

"Mort?" He didn't look up from his lap. He couldn't look up from his lap. Her voice was too clear in his ears, too real, too solid to be brushed aside as another hallucination. His vision went dark in shock and denial. If she was really here, then he could have really hurt her, and he could still really hurt her. She'd hurt him, and tiny piece of him – a piece that was ballooning by the second – wanted her to pay for her betrayal.

_Go away, Amy._ Again he was looking through the front windows of the cabin and watching her drive up in her Subaru. _Go away._

She didn't. While he couldn't see, he could hear and feel, and he knew she'd moved closer. Her voice came from a place closer to the ground than where it'd first appeared.

"Mort, I'm sorry I haven't been visiting. I don't like seeing you like this." Amy's voice fell silent as if she were waiting for a response from him. But he couldn't. His voice had been robbed from him the moment his self-control had dissolved. So many months he'd been silent, and even now he couldn't speak. "Mort? Can you hear me?"

Yes he could hear. He could hear how her voice was characteristically going shrill in distress. _Calm down, Amy. Calm down._ One didn't have to be sincere to quiet her nerves, only had to speak to her in a soft voice. But he had no voice, so he couldn't calm her. The shrillness of her voice set up residence in his temples, throbbing with his pulse.

His vision suddenly cleared. Amy was close enough to touch . . . so close . . . she was touching him. He could feel a single fingertip on his wrist. It drug him back through the layers of silence and nothingness that had become his mind. It anchored him. It linked him to the real world – the vibrant and detailed one he'd been avoided and instinctively feared.

He fought. The colors here burned his eyes, sounds assailed his ears, his clothes pulled at his shoulders, his mouth tasted funny, and the air smelled unpleasantly stale. Mort jerked away from Amy's touch as if it burned like acid, trying to escape back to his self-imposed quarantine, but it was too late; the movement only jolted him into the real world, settling his senses all the more firmly in an existence that he feared.

_Amy . . . _he mouthed her name in despair, fearing for what he might become with so many details beating at his senses. They overwhelmed him, making his fingers itch to capture each one on paper, even if he had to use his own blood for ink.

_Too much._ His mind couldn't keep up with the deluge of physical input. _Stop._ He had to make it stop, he had to. It'd strip what was left of his sanity if he let it. Without knowing, he started rocking back and forth, desperately trying to get back to that silent place in his own mind.

* * *

Carly watched the entire exchange between Amy and Rainey, noting the subtle changes in the man as he responded to his ex-wife's voice. Having disappeared into the background of this human melodrama, she stood with her clipboard supported with one arm as she took notes. This was the first time she'd ever seen Rainey in any state that approached cognizant. His eyes were clouded, but at least a _person_ was looking out through them.

When Amy had touched him, she'd been sure they were going to need Ralph after all. He'd shivered, and blinked, and _reacted_ to the light. She'd tensed, prepared to jerk the other woman away if need be, but the attack had never come. On the contrary, he'd said her name. Well, no sound had emerged, but his lips had moved and he'd obviously recognized her. That was progress. That was a great deal of progress.

But somewhere in the sixty seconds between this development, and the moment she relaxed, something went wrong. She'd seen the brief bloom of panic in her patient's eyes, and then he'd started to rock back and forth, his eyes once again focused inward.

"Amy, come here," Carly said softly, reaching out for the woman. This wasn't a good sign. This was a sign of a man on the edge, and she didn't want him to become violent – that would destroy any hope she had of getting him out of the ward.

Amy did, confused and concerned, but she knew by now to listen to the doctors in charge of her ex's care. But even so, her head craned around as Carly hustled her to the door and pushed her through the door.

"Ralph, go get Betty or another orderly. I think we may need a tranquilizer, but no one is to come into the room without my permission or Rainey turning violent. Understood?" She didn't wait for a confirmation, immediately twirling on her heel and walking back to Rainey. In the thirty seconds that her back had been turned, he'd moved from rocking to banging his head against the wall.

"Mort . . . Mr. Rainey . . . you need to stop." He didn't respond to her; he was curled up in a fetal position, his forearms covering his face as his hands were clasped, and rocking back against the wall, his scull connecting with it with every movement. And his momentum just kept increasing.

"Mort, stop it," she said, taking the risk of reaching for him. The moment her hands closed around his wrists, he howled, as if her fingers were searing him. She jumped back, loosing her grip in the process. Mort slammed back against the wall, his head making a dismal _thwack_ against the plaster.

Carly winced, and hoped that would be enough to make him stop his frantic movements, but it wasn't. He did it again. And again. And again. There were drops of blood on the wall. _This has to stop._ Believing there was more hysteria to his actions than madness, she once again grabbed his wrists – both in one hand this time – and jerked him towards her. Before he could fight, she reached out and slapped him.

Silence. Both Carly and Mort froze. His eyes opened and focused on her hands around his wrists. She watched as his gaze moved up her arms to her face.

When their eyes met, she received a shock; Mort Rainey, at this moment, was completely lucid.

* * *

"Doctor. You really should go home now."

Carly looked up from her notes and research to find a concerned orderly at her side. She suddenly became aware of the darkness outside the windows and her empty stomach.

Not answering the woman, she checked her watch – it was a quarter past nine. Her work day had ended five hours ago. She looked to the gurney next to her chair – Rainey was still unconscious.

He'd given himself a decent concussion this afternoon. Carly was unsure of how much of this was her fault and how much would have happened eventually if they'd continued with his previous course of treatment. Not that it mattered; she still felt the same pricks of responsibility.

"Has his status changed?" she asked the concerned nurse as she stood and stretched.

"No, doctor. We're going to keep him for a day or two for observation."

Carly nodded. "And you'll remember not to give him any sedatives, no matter what?"

The nurse looked offended. "We do know what we're doing here in the infirmary," she barely kept herself from huffing. "We have Mr. Rainey under full control."

Carly glanced back down at the gurney, seeing that Rainey was indeed under control – they'd used the restraints to limit his mobility. She hated seeing those leather straps. These patents weren't animals and those looked too much like collars or leashes, never mind that they were only around wrists and ankles. It Rainey became too unmanageable, she knew that two more straps would be fastened around him. One at the chest and one at the waist.

But however much she professionally disliked that thought – how could patients treated like animals ever become fully functioning members of society again? – she didn't protest. It wasn't her place. If anyone were to do so, it's be Dr. Gable, a clear-eyed and fiercely intelligent woman of fifty-five or so. She'd been offered retirement five years ago, but she'd turned it down, saying that the facility would be hard pressed to find another physician that was better qualified to care for Briar Ridge's patients. Carly for one believed her. Dr. Gable had tended to her own father as he'd suffered from extreme dementia and Alzheimer's. And she also supported the woman's decision to search for her own replacement. Gable would retire when she'd found someone she trusted to take care of her patients. Carly respected the woman greatly.

"Call or page me if there's any change in his condition," she instructed the nurse, who nodded shortly. _Apparently she's not over that question about the sedatives. _Carly didn't offer an apology.

Gathering her things, she spared one last glance for her patient, and left the ward, intent on going home.

She stopped by the break room and gathered her purse and coat from her locker. The weather had turned chilly in the past few days. After hanging up her stethoscope and white lab coat, she closed the door and headed out, stopping only when someone called to her from the office.

"Doctor . . . doctor Beckham."

Carly turned to find a young man in a green John Deere cap waiting for her, a large coffee can full of rhododendrons in his hands. "Michael," she greeted him. "What are you doing here still?" She knew that most half-way houses had curfews.

"Mister . . . mister Graham made me bring these to you." Michael held the flowers out to her.

Carly smiled, knowing Todd should have been a bit more specific in his instructions. Michael would follow directions to the letter, never stopping to take other things into consideration. He'd been told to deliver flowers to her, and so he'd waited – probably past his curfew – to get them to her. She'd have to talk to the old man in the morning. But in the meantime. . . .

"Thank you, Michael." She took the flowers from her. "Now, isn't it time for you to get home?"

The young man looked around, confused and with a frown on his face. "I'm . . . I'm late. They won't let me in."

"Yes they will," Carly said gently. "Just make sure this doesn't happen a lot. If you're going to be late, find someone else who can do your job for you, alright?" The man nodded. "Good. Now let me call you a cab."

"You're . . . you're a nice person, Dr. Beckham."

"So are you, Michael." Carly stepped into the office, nodding to the night staff, and called a cab. When one of the male orderlies from the first floor ward walked by, getting ready to take the bus home, she called to him. "Excuse me, Michael. I'll be right back."

"Yes . . . yes ma'am."

Carly smiled and walked over the man she'd called to. His name was Colby and she'd worked with him once or twice. He always had a big smile on his face and was a total professional. "Hey, doctor. What can I do for you."

"See that man over there?" She gestured back towards the office.

"Michael. Sure, I know Michael."

"Oh good. We'll I'm afraid that Todd made an error in judgment when he asked Michael to bring me some flowers. He's missed his bus and his curfew. I've called a cab for him, and I'm going to call his group home, but I don't want him riding there by himself. If you'll ride with him there, I'll pay the cabbie to take you home too."

Colby shrugged. He was a bachelor and in no hurry to get home. "Sure. No problem."

"Thanks," Carly said sincerely. "I'd do it myself –"

"But rules are rules. I understand." Colby nodded to her, then went over to talked to Michael, leading him out the door and out of the building as their cab pulled up.

Carly followed at a distance, paid the cabbie after giving him directions, then went back inside to call the home. Arrangements made and no one else in the vicinity needing her help, Carly sighed and finally headed out to her car.

Bast was going to be upset that her dinner was so late.

* * *

"Amy, come to bed. It's late."

Amy Rainey woke from her half doze at the window. Her mind had been miles and hours away, in another time and place entirely. While her thoughts weren't coherent, they all focused on her ex-husband.

Dr. Beckham had said that this afternoon was actually a large step forward in Mort's recovery, but she couldn't see that. How could that much grief, confusion, and pain be recovery? How could that do anyone any good?

How had Mort survived so many months holding that all inside him?

"Amy honey, I don't think you should go back if this has you so unsettled. Not to mention its dangerous. What would have happened if Mort had attacked you?"

She certainly wouldn't have been surprised. She deserved his anger. That she hadn't been on the receiving end of that violence was the real surprise.

Mort – but not Mort – coming towards her, bare hands violent and threatening. Apologizing for what he was about to do. The warning to stop. He didn't. The shot. The blood. The realization. The confusion. The hysteria.

_ What would have happened if I hadn't gone to the cabin that day?_

When Ted took her arm to lead her to bed, she didn't resist.

But she never fell asleep either.

**Author's Thanks: **thanks go to . . . . **Dawnie-7** (it took me awhile to figure out just what Mort's reaction was, but I think I got it figured out rather well. Be sure to tell me if you think I'm off. ); **smoochies221** (yes, evil cliffhanger. Those are always the best in my opinion.); **normal human being** (LOL! Good point with the pipe. And yes, sometimes Carly will play dirty, although it was as much of a surprise to me as it was to you. I know she was determined, but that little twist wasn't something I'd planned on.); **Cassie** (You-fics. I swear those are the bane of my existence. Enough Mary-Sues might as well be You-fics, so why even bother to write something like that. I dunno.); **Esmeralda Sparrow** (I know this couldn't be classified as a quick update by any stretch of the imagination, but I hope it was worth waiting for.); **Nithke** (Paranoia can be a good thing at times . . . especially as a plot device. ; ) Thanks for the complements; I'm glad you're enjoying the story so much.); **CaptainJackSparrowsGirl** (I'm glad you're finding the story interesting.); **pandagal** (I don't know how much Mort is coming back for Amy's sake – or how much she deserves it – or for his own. All I know is that I'll be glad when I can write dialogue for him again.); **SS** (Ooo . . . and extension of the movie, eh? I guess that means I've got my characters down. It's hard to tell sometimes, especially when you're writing someone for the first time.); **Pirate Rhi** (I'm glad this is different than a lot of stories in this fandom. I still feel like I'm reinventing a cliché, but if I'm doing it well, then I suppose that doesn't matter.); **CStini** (More chapters will come as fast as I can get into Mort's head.); **Cayenne Pepper Powder** (Yes, I admit to evil tendencies. Amy . . . she's nicer in the book than in the movie, and I don't plan on making her a regular . . . at least not at the moment. These things change. And I'm glad you find Carly to be likable. That's always a good thing.); **Broken Reflection** (Professional. Wow. There's a description I haven't heard before. I hope that means you're finding this some high quality reading material. I know this wasn't soon, but it was the best I could do.)


	7. Chapter Six

**Author's Note: this chapter didn't take too long to get out, did it? It seems like I certainly managed to write it faster than the last. I hope you enjoy it – I certainly did. It's fun to let Mort interact with what's around him. Well, I won't take more of your time. Read and enjoy.**

* * *

"Hello, Mort. How are you today?" The greeting had become routine by now. Carly walked in – looking official with lab coat and clipboard – said "hello," and he responded. No, he didn't talk and he didn't look at her, but he always acknowledged her presence in some way. A blink of the eyes, a turn of the head, a slight twitch of his hands, or perhaps a shifting of his weight as he sat in the corner.

She sighed. In the past three weeks, he hadn't show much progress, much less another breakthrough. Carly knew she out to be content that Rainey was at least responding to outside stimuli, but she wasn't. After drawing him into the "real world," she should be pleased with just getting him to interact with his environment. But for some reason he wasn't, and that bruised her pride.

_Oh, he responds,_ she thought sourly, _just not in the way I want him to._ Fear was how he reacted to everything. If a meal was brought into his room, he withdrew into his corner. If someone reached out to touch him, he shrunk away. If she opened the window to let in some fresh air, he refused to go near it. If sirens went past on the far-off freeway, he covered his ears and popped his jaw.

Worst of all was when Joe, the head janitor, drove up in his noisy, ancient pick-up, which had a habit of backfiring; the closest Carly could come to describing the noise was it sounded like a truck having a hairball. She'd been in the room with Rainey just days after he'd been released from the medical ward when Joe had parked his car in the parking lot far below. It had chugged and sputtered for minutes after the engine had been turned off and Joe had long since disappeared inside the building. But eventually it gave up its indignant complaints with a loud _BANG!_

Mort leapt at least a foot into the air, spinning around frantically to find what had made the noise. Carly had tried to calm him, but her attempts were merely met with hyperventilation and flailing arms. Ralph and Betty had rushed in – adding weight to her theory that they had appointed themselves her guardian angels – ready with tranquilizers should they be needed, but Carly had waved them back out. She wanted Mort to calm down on his own. He'd had too many drug circulating through his system for too long. Had grown too used to having his feelings neutralized for him instead of having to deal with them himself. If he was ever going to progress to the point that Carly wouldn't feel guilty about letting him interact with other patients, he was going to have to relearn certain things, and this was one of them.

It'd taken the better part of an hour, but Mort had finally collapsed on the floor, one hand twitching as if writing. Carly had knelt down beside him, slipping a pencil into his hand and helping him to hold it. "What is it, Mort?" she asked gently. "What's wrong?" From this close she could see his pulse racing in his neck and could smell the sour scent of fear-induced sweat. To all appearances, he was having a panic attack. "You have to tell me what's wrong." The pencil scrabbled at the floor, and she watched, looking for anything that resembled words among the chicken scratch coming from the soft lead.

Finally Rainey went limp, his eyes shuttling back and forth under thin eyelids. The pencil fell from his fingers, and his breathing seemed to slow. Carly had let Ralph come in to help her get Rainey onto his cot, and then she'd sent him back to his post. Betty had come in then, stethoscope in hand, to make sure Rainey was indeed calming down and not suffering from hypotension or anything else.

Carly ignored her, sure that the woman could do her job without any direction. She had other things to occupy her mind after all.

Crouching down, she'd studied the marks on the floor, looking for any sense amongst the scribbles. After a half an hour of consideration, she thought she might be able to make out the words "you're not handling this well," but had decided to get a second opinion. Ralph had made out "not" and "well", and Betty had seen "you're", but that was all they came to a conclusive decision on.

Nonetheless, Carly marked all this down in her notes, and photographed the area on the floor for study later, and then talked to Mort, but he didn't respond to her.

That was the last day Joe parked in the parking lot near the heavy security wing.

That had also been three weeks ago. Now Carly know how best not to agitate her patient. If she left him alone got long enough, he would start to pace back and forth, hands wringing, lips moving but no sound escaping. Agitation was better than fear, so she let him pace.

As was custom now, she say down in one of the room's two chairs and pulled a stack of blank paper towards her. Somehow these sessions with Rainey had turned into writing exercises. She still clung to the idea that the written word was the way to ease Rainey into communicating with the rest of the world. However, she wasn't much of a writer, so trying to get Rainey's interest was a constant struggle. For a minute or two she doodled, playing with the idea of writing a scathing reply to the wedding announcement she'd received from her ex – the nerve of the man – but discarded it. She wasn't three years old, and she certainly wasn't drunk; she could act her age.

Instead, her mind caught hold of a fragment of a memory of some book she'd read in the recent past. Some overly dramatic, Gothic-inspired nightmare of a story. How hard could it be to write something like that? _After all, _she thought wryly, _most of it follows a formula. Right from "It was a dark and story night," down to the revelation of some insane relative that's been committing horrendous murders._ Picking up a black crayon – the only writing utensil that she was allowed to leave Rainey unsupervised with – she started to write.

_It was a dark and stormy night. The gargoyles on the stone eves of Killingsford Manor seemed to scream in blatant defiance of the unexpected, irregular light. . ._

Some minutes later, Carly stopped and looked over what she'd written. It wasn't Shakespeare – hell, it wasn't even Poe – but she didn't think it was horrible. At least not completely. Full of unnatural white floating figures, and mysteriously and forebodingly stern men full of sexual energy, and of course the requite beautiful, young virgin, it could have been taken off any the worse paperback shelves in some grocery store.

"How bad can it really be?" she asked herself out loud. "It's not something I'd really want seen by others, but . . . what do you think, Mort?" It was an impulsive question, but Carly realized that Mort wasn't going to start conversations on his own. He needed to be drawn into them. And for that to happen, he was going to have to be placed in situations that required answers from him. He couldn't be babied forever.

And her ploy even worked to some degree. Rainey paused in his constant pacing and his head twitched in her direction, but other than that he didn't respond.

"Com'on, I can't be _that_ horrible of a writer. I always got really good marks on my essays in college." No response. "Do you want to hear it?" Again a head twitch in her direction, as if he were listening but couldn't bare to look at her. "I'll take that as a yes," she murmured. If she had to badger him into talking, she'd do it. It was already taking her an indecent amount of time – according to her professional reputation – to make the kind of progress that was expected from both Rainey and Carly herself.

She hadn't been reading off her paper for more than a minute before Rainey walked across the room and ripped it out of her hands.

It was such an unprecedented reaction that Carly froze, aborted words on her lips. She watched as Rainey's eyes skimmed over the words, distaste – or something very much like it – in his gaze. Finally he stopped, and for the first time initiated eye contact with her. Carly almost wanted to laugh at the expression on his face; he was _not_ a happy writer.

Almost as if he realized what he was doing, Rainey suddenly jerked his eyes away from her face. His gaze cast about the table, looking for something. Intently watching, Carly had to stifle a grin when he picked up the red crayon and fastidiously drew a large 'X' threw her story.

"Bad writing, hmm?" she asked as Mort abandoned the paper, all interest having been dismissed now that he'd judged the quality of her words. And amazingly enough, Rainey responded to her once again. It was nothing more than a flap of his hand and a waggle of his fingers in her direction, but it was more than he'd ever done before.

Carly sat in shock for some minutes before taking out her pencil and making a page or so of notes in his file. His soft pacing accompanied the quiet scratching of lead on paper.

After five minutes of silence in the small room, Carly cleared her throat. "Mort? Would you like to write something for me? It can be anything you want." She waited with bated breath for some sort of answer from him. He'd surprised her so many times today. Perhaps he'd do so again –

A soft curse rang in her mind when Rainey immediately looked at his corner as soon as he heard her question. If she could just keep his attention for another minute or two! She'd be satisfied just to make him _think_. Just to introduce the possibility that he could communicate. After all the interaction they'd had today, she couldn't help but believe that Rainey had reached some sort of critical stage. That if she didn't reach him today, she wouldn't ever.

"I know you're scared, Mort." Carly tried to make her voice as soothing as she could even as she prepared to ask questions that she knew would upset him. "Why are you afraid to talk? Or write? Why are you ignoring the entire world around you?" No answer: Rainey slowly made for his corner as if her words were a net that had trapped his limbs. Good. She needed to trap him. "What are you scared?" she asked again. "What happened at the lake? When you were alone? Did your imagination run away with you?"

She never got a reply. He was turning himself off in front of her and it made her want to slap him, simply to shock him back to himself. But she didn't. Instead, she tried to reason with him again. "Mort – "

Before she could continue any farther, Carly was interrupted by the door opening. An intern stuck his head inside and said, "Dr. Beckham, Dr. Holshack wants to see you." She must have had an obstinate look on her face, because the young man cleared his throat and uncomfortably added, "He wants to see you now, doctor."

Carly sighed in frustration, resisted the urge to search her pockets for a cigarette, and sighed again. "Alright. I'm coming." She gathered her things slowly, using the time to lock away her frustration before her meeting with her supervisor. Irritation would get her nowhere. If this meeting was about what she thought it was, she was going to need to be cool and logical.

"I'll see you tomorrow, Mort." The figure on the bed didn't acknowledge her. Discouraged, she turned to leave, her triumphant high leaking away. "Think about what I said. I'll visit tomorrow." Carly couldn't even be sure he was awake to hear her, but she chose to be optimistic. Rainey could hide, but Carly was one of the best. She'd win eventually.

* * *

"Good afternoon, Dr. Beckham. Go right in, Dr. Holshack is waiting for you."

Carly nodded pleasantly to her superior's secretary, and entered the office, her back straight and shoulders squared as if she were going off to battle. Which was what she was expecting. As a state-run hospital, Briar Ridge couldn't afford to pay each doctor for too many hours of overtime, and Carly had been putting in more than her fair share lately. But it was needed to make the kind of progress she'd just witnessed in Rainey.

"Carly. Glad you got here so fast. We need to talk."

She walked into the room, and slid into a chair, still prepared to go to battle, but more than willing to engage in a verbal skirmish first. "I don't suppose you called me in for a bit of pleasant chitchat, did you?"

"'Fraid not." Holshack looked up from a form he'd just finished filling out and took the time to look his employee over. There was an aura of defensiveness around her, and frazzled look in her eye. She'd been putting in too many hours and she knew it. And from the look of her, she was also prepared to defend it. "Care to tell me why you think you're here?"

Carly gave him a wry grin. "I think I'm here because you sent an intern for me." Adam didn't look fooled. "Alright, I know I've been putting in a lot of overtime –"

"Approximately five hours a week. Yeah, I'd call that a lot of overtime. Especially when the accountants scream anytime anyone puts in more than five hours a month."

"One of the privileges of being a doctor instead of admin is that I don't have to deal with screaming accountants," she retorted, settling into the chair more comfortably.

"Yes, but you do get to deal with me. And I'm telling you that I don't want to have to listen to their screams either. So put an end to the late nights."

That was unfair. "I'm not wasting time, Adam. I'm putting in completely viable hours. Between my caseload of check-ins and temporary residents and Rainey, I'm stretched pretty thin. I _need_ that time to see to everyone. If I can't give the proper care to the patients on my caseload, then why am I here? I refuse to give anyone half-hearted treatment. Mental illness doesn't run on a clock."

"You're right." Holshack sighed and leaned back in his chair. "And when we're called in at two in the morning to deal with suicidal or violent or disruptive patients, no one complains. But the state seems to feel that whatever treatment needs to be done for patients can either be done during business hours, or by another doctor. Isn't there anything you can delegate? I know most of your time has been spent with Rainey –"

"With good reason," she interrupted. "I'm making progress Adam. I'm getting him to interact. If I'm spending too much time with him, it's because he's got a court date set for –"

"For another five months from now. Drs. Gable, Marchman, and I talked to the head DA. We convinced her that justice would be better served once Rainey can at least speak for himself."

"And what was the trade-off?" Carly didn't like the sound of this.

Adam shrugged. "That's Dr. Marchman's business, not mine."

"What did he tell the DA, Adam. I need to know."

Her outburst earned her a raised eyebrow, and she fought the urge to blush at the silent reprimand/question. "That sounds an awful lot like personal involvement, Carly. Do I need to restrict the hours you spend with Rainey?"

And rob her of her hard earned victory? She didn't think so. "No. It's not. I just want to know if Marchman is going to be expecting me to be grooming Rainey for an insanity plea."

"You don't think that would be the best defense to go with?"

Carly got up and started pacing. "How would I know, Adam? I'm not a lawyer. All I know is that I have a man in my care who has gone through significant psychological trauma – enough that he can't even contemplate his own life, not to even mention a trial."

Holshack decided to let the subject drop for the moment. "What kind of progress are you making?"

"Slow. Slow but steady. I'm about ready to bring up the topic of moving Rainey to another ward with Marchman."

"I thought he wanted proof of consistent communication from Rainey before he considered moving him."

"He does, but I'm convinced that he's oversimplifying the matter. I can see it in Rainey's eyes, Adam . . . he hates that room. He's restless there. How am I supposed to get him to focus on anything if the room steals his attention from me?"

"But you've been making progress regardless of the surroundings." It was more a statement than a question, but Carly still felt the need to defend herself.

"Yes, but I think I could make more in a room that doesn't feel like a prison cell."

"You could make more progress?"

Carly shot an exasperated look at her boss. "I could make more progress with _him_. You know what I meant."

"Yes, but I'm not the one that had the authority to move Mr. Rainey or keep him in his current ward."

She made a face, but accepted the truth of this. "You think Marchman will listen to me then?"

"Of course he'll listen to you. He's a very deliberate and thoughtful man. Whether or not he'll bend to your wishes is another matter entirely. I think you'll need more than a red 'X'," he pointed towards the papers she'd laid on his desk, "to convince him to change his mind."

"But you'll back me up if he asks for your opinion."

"No. I don't interfere in the way he runs his ward, and he doesn't complain about the policies I put into place on the other two." Carly opened her mouth to protest, but Holshack cut her off. "_But_. . ." she closed her mouth. "But if he asks me whether you're off your rocker or not, then I'll vouch for you.

"In the meantime. . . ." He gestured for her to take her seat again, and she did. "I want you to cut back on the amount of overtime you're putting in. I'm serious when I say I don't want the accountants coming to me every other day with tales of your negligence to check the time – which is what they're calling it, by the way." Carly made a face. "Now, what I can do to help you do that? I assume you're not willing to hand over some of Rainey's care over to another doctor?"

"No, I'm not. He barely tolerates me, and he's at least _used_ to me. I don't know what will happen if I throw someone he doesn't know in there."

"What about Steve? He was working with Rainey before you were."

"And making a lot less progress, I might add. Not to mention that I'm using some unorthodox methods of communication with him. I don't think my esteemed colleague would agree with half of what I'm doing."

"Dr. Wright is a good psychiatrist – "

"But book-bound, which is exactly what Rainey isn't." Carly had to smile at her own pun. "No, I just don't think that would work. If I do – and this is a big _if_ – agree to letting another doctor work with Rainey, I want it to be someone who would not argue with every treatment I experiment with."

"So what do you want to do?"

As she stopped to think about the question, Carly blew out a gentle stream of air through her front teeth, producing a soft whistling noise. In her mind, she ran through her list of patients, their reasons for being at the center, and how close to rehabilitation they were. "I've got two obsessive-compulsives that I wouldn't mind handing over to Steve – his by-the-book mentality works wonders with them. I've got a third ob-com that's ready to be discharged, but who I've recommended for weekly therapy for the next few months, but I think he can attend one of the group sessions. I have a fifty-year-old empty nester, who I think is simply reacting to having all her kids out of the house. She was a single mother for over ten years, and the transition has been hard on her. I think I could let Dr. Na take that one over…or her intern. I hear he's good with older folks with disabilities."

This conversation continued for several more minutes as she went over her caseload with Adam and consulted with his master list of who had time for new patients and who didn't. It was finally decided that she would turn seven patients over to new doctors and keep three who were too far into their treatment but not close enough to recovery to switch over to a new psychiatrist. With these three in addition to Rainey, she'd only have four patients; with such a lightened load, she'd be able to devote more time to Rainey.

"I admit, this was more pleasant than I thought it'd be," Carly confessed, gathering her papers in preparation to go. "Sometimes I forget just how reasonable you can be, Adam."

"Why don't I feel complemented?" he teased his young protégée.

"Because you're a suspicious, cranky old man with exceptional taste. Now, I think I'll go see if I can slip in to see Marchman before he leaves for the day."

"It's Monday. He works normal hours today."

"Oh good. I was afraid I was already too late."

"You might be if he's closeted away in a meeting." Adam walked her to the door. "Just don't give him cause to come yelling to me too, Beckham."

"I won't. I do have _some_ tact when I want to." She just usually didn't.

With that cheerful thought on the forefront of her mind, she left, walking down the corridor to the nearest elevator. It was time to go back to the third floor.

* * *

"I appreciate the hours you've put in, Dr. Beckham, and I find the progress you've made with Mr. Rainey to be astounding, but it's not enough for me to consider moving your patient."

Carly sat in front of Dr. Marchman's large desk and ground her teeth, trying to keep a civil tongue in her hand. She couldn't be nearly as informal with this man as she could with her boss, and frustration would just make him more reluctant to listen to her. And she couldn't afford that.

Once she considered herself under control, she said in a carefully measured voice, "I understand that. I'm just asking for you to reconsider your conditions for what you expect from Mr. Rainey before you'll move him out of the maximum security ward. He's only had two violent outbursts since he's been under my care –"

"He didn't have any under Dr. Wright."

Again she gritted her teeth. "You're right, but he also dramatically declined under Dr. Wright's care. When he came to Briar Ridge, Rainey was communicating – perhaps not civilly, but at least he was coherent – and he stopped altogether the longer Ste–" she caught herself, "Dr. Wright worked with him. Under my supervision, Rainey has started taking notice and interacting with his surroundings, he's communicated via the written word several times, and he's been more energetic. He paces instead of sitting in a corner all day. I think he's shown that he's recovering at a steady enough rate to be at least _considered_ for relocation."

When Dr. Marchman fell silent for several minutes, Carly felt a surge of hope. She wasn't asking for immediate action – that had probably been her mistake the last time she brought her case before this man – but for the promise that action would be taken under consideration. _Baby steps_, she reminded herself as she waited for an answer. _If I can just get the ball rolling –_

"How soon do you expect Mr. Rainey to be talking again?"

"Hmm?" She'd been distracted by her own thoughts, and it took a minute for her to gather her mind and process what had just been asked of her. "Oh, no time soon. Verbal communication is still months – if not a year of more – down the road. Rainey is going to need to be eased back into the world of the cognizant. And part of that, I believe, is getting him into an environment that has more he can interact with. Why should he strive for more when he's stuck in such an austere room day in and day out? _I'd_ become withdrawn if I had to stay in there."

"But you expect him to recover?"

A tough question. "I expect him to be rehabilitated. Full recovery is very unlikely in a case like his."

Marchman nodded, making her internally sigh in relief. She'd given the right answer.

"All right, doctor. If by the end of the week, Mr. Rainey has made some sort of attempt to communicate again, I'll act on your request to move him. But he will be placed under the highest security that is possible in that ward. You know what that means, correct?"

She nodded. No personal visitors without an orderly, no trips out of the room without the company of the psychiatrist in charge and an orderly or nurse, door locked at night. And the possibility of being moved back to the third floor should he become unmanageable. "Yes, sir."

"Then we have an agreement, Dr. Beckham. Now if you'll excuse me, I have some phone calls to make."

Carly nodded again, and left, a smile of triumph on her face. Rainey didn't stand a chance. He'd get better or she'd know why.

_A dark and stormy night. . .A dark and stormy night. . .A dark and stormy night. . . ._

The single sentence repeated itself over and over in Mort's mind, invading his dreams and making rest nearly impossible.

_Bad writing. It's just bad writing. Cliché. Trite. Childish._

He had to make it stop. He couldn't stand hearing that phrase again. It pulled and nagged him out of bed, made him cross to the table in the middle of his room, and pick up a crayon. He didn't notice which.

It was dark in the room; a patch of night showed through the room's window. There was barely enough light from the moon to allow him to differentiate between empty space and furniture, but Mort didn't really need light. He knew what the words looked like without having to see them. He knew how they should flow together without having to see the punctuation marks. He could hear them without having to cipher the individual letters.

At four past midnight, he started to write; not on the paper, that would be too normal. Too routine. Too full of memories. The walls would be his paper. He'd write until those damn words were out of his head and he could fall asleep.

* * *

**Disclaimer: Ok, so ****Four Past Midnight****is the collection that Secret Window, ****Secret********Garden****appears in, and I don't own it. Stephen King does.**

**Author's Thanks**: Oh, you are all much too patient for putting up with me. : )

**pandagal** (Yes, progress is a very good thing, and it's about time that Mort be making it. As I've said before, it's really hard to write insights for a character that won't speak and tries not to think. Thanks for letting me know that I'm doing a good job, though. It's a relief.); **Dawnie****-7** (Intense. Intense is a very good word for the last chapter. It was fun to write. I was a bit guilty for treating Mort like that, but it's what he'd do in that situation, and who am I to argue with his nature? ; ) As for Michael, I've got plans for him. We'll definitely be seeing him more as the story goes on.); **Merrie** (Who doesn't go for crazy men? They're just so needy. And it wasn't too short – that chapter was the longest I'd written until this one.); **Sternenlicht** (Thanks for your input. It's always a humongous compliment to hear someone say that I'm portraying my characters in a realistic way. It's hard sometimes to know what is realistic, and what's over the edge, but I've had no complaints so far.); **normal human being** (Morting! I love it. Right up there with Sandsish (is that the word you used?) And what about the end of the fic? looks angelic Natural – there's a word I consider a complement. If I can keep everything about this story natural, I'll be a very happy girl.); **saiyuki123** (I tried to get this up as soon as I could, but it was hard to decide where to start. But I eventually got it down. Hope you enjoy it.); **Nithke** (Mort's major breakthrough is coming. I promise. I'm getting frustrated with writing him so. . .silently. Yes, I am a girl – I don't know any guys who write or read JD fanfics, but I'd love to meet any who do. And if I've inspired you, then I consider this story a success based solely on that. Oh, and there's a website I think you should check out…it' for Johnny lovers. It's If that doesn't show up for you, go ahead and e-mail me.); **Esmeralda** **Sparrow** (I'm glad you're enjoying everything. Let me know if this was worth the wait.); **Cassie** (Mort's a hard guy to write at the moment, but I've definitely enjoying it.); **johnnydeppfanatic13** (if you're getting inside Mort's head when I'm writing, then I know I'm doing a good job. Hope you liked this chapter.); **SS** (you know, I really am trying to make these chapter long, but they're all a struggle. Mort's hard to write. But I'm glad you're getting into it – that makes my day. And yes, I wrote more. I'll continue to do so until the story is done. )__


	8. Chapter Seven

**Author's Note: I admit to wanting to get this out last weekend, but things don't always work the way to want them to. I just hope – as I always do – that this was worth the wait. Thanks at the end.**

* * *

_I'm just going to get rid of it. Just cut it all off. Who cares if I'll look like a newly shorn sheep? It's got to be better than this. _Carly was standing in front of her bathroom mirror, glowering at the bush that was sprouting from her head. Now, she was used to bed-head, but this was a truly exceptional case. Throw in a case of trembling hands, heavy-lidded eyes, and a raging urge to throw back a few shots of anything with a higher alcohol content than a wine cooler. . . Well, it was just not shaping up to be a good day.

Resolutely, Carly braided her hair back into a French braid that pulled at her temples. She knew it made her look strict, but she didn't care. The only people who were going to see her were colleagues who probably thought she was a repressed dominatrix, and patients who couldn't care less.

_Oh, wait. Self-pity, party of one._ Carly had resolved long ago that she wouldn't let herself linger over all the crappy things that had happened in her life. She wasn't the only person to ever deal with a failed marriage, or alcohol addiction, or school payments, or disagreeable coworkers, or overbearing mothers. Besides, her line of work tended to make self-pity seem extremely foolish and self-indulgent. When she set aside all political correctness, the truth of the matter was that she dealt with some seriously screwed up people. Many who just happened to be worse of than she was.

However, these comforting thoughts didn't make her need for a beer go away.

_Coffee. I need lost of coffee. With sugar. And – _

"Mrow. . ." Looking down, Carly found her cat sitting patiently at her feet.

"What's wrong, kitten?" She smiled as Bast started twining around her ankles, meowing piously. "What do you want, precious?" More meowing and pitiful eyes. "Alright, alright. I'm coming."

But she obviously wasn't coming fast enough. In protest of the delay in petting and pampering, Bast jumped up onto the counter, almost ending up in the sink. Carly merely sighed and picked the animal up, rubbing and scratching its ears as she walked of her room and towards the kitchen. As much as Bast appreciated the petting, she started purring even louder when she recognized the direction they were headed in.

No sooner had she set down both cat and food bowl, than the phone rang. Carly eyed the ringing contraption suspiciously, wishing she had caller ID. It could have easily been the office or a patient calling from their home, but then again, it could be her mother, and Carly was in no mood to deal with _that_ headache.

_If it's the office, they'll page me. If it's mother, she'll try my cell phone._ And so would any patients. _And the cell phone has caller ID._ Smug at the solution she'd found, Carly broke open an English muffin and put it into her toaster oven.

She made her coffee, dug a canister of nearly expired cream cheese out of the fridge, and quickly washed a knife. It wasn't until she was in the midst of spreading reasonably safe cream cheese on her muffin, that the pager on her hip went off.

_Office._ With a mental sigh, Carly set down knife and muffin, and went to the phone. The number for the facility was clear in her memory, and she dialed it absentmindedly, wondering why they couldn't wait another hour until she came in on her own. Either something was terribly wrong – like Rainey had killed himself – or something amazing had happened. _Like Rainey woke up this morning and started shooting the breeze with the orderly who brought in his breakfast._

"Briar Ridge State Mental –"

"Give it a break, Leo." Carly was a but more brusque than she'd meant to be. Why? Because she'd just realized that her thoughts were revolving around Rainey. She was becoming obsessed with curing him, and that got under her skin.

"Carly? Is that you?"

"Yes. I just got paged."

"You also woke up on the wrong side of the bed." There was a tone of reproof in Leo's voice. Enough to make Carly feel even more sorry.

"Yeah, look. I'm sorry about that. My nervous system seems to be at odds with the rest of me this morning."

"Aww . . . PMS-ing?"

"Ha, ha. Very funny." Carly crossed her ankles and leaned against the wall. "Like I said, Leo, I just got paged."

"Well, it wasn't me."

_Obviously._ "Do you know who it might have been?" She didn't want to have to make phone calls all morning to track down the original caller. That'd drive her to drink for sure. That or a cigarette, and she'd gained twenty pounds the last time she'd quit, and didn't want to have to work that weight off again.

"Why don't you check the number on the pager?" There was quiet amusement in Leo's voice.

Carly mentally slapped her forehead, and accepted the gentle mockery. "Well, I suppose I could, but that would be much too easy, wouldn't it?" It was too late to save face, so she might as well give in to the part of her mind that was urging her to see the humor in the situation. Humor that Leo clearly saw if her laughter was any indication. "Just tell me before I hang up and use my head – is there anything big going on? I'd like to know before getting myself embroiled in any messes."

"There's an uproar on the third floor, but they're always ready to make a fuss up there. Working up there winds people too tightly. What all those crazy kids need is two weeks vacation."

"Something tells me it's more than that," Carly murmured while wishing that she'd picked up the phone earlier. "What kind of uproar?"

"Just the kind that requires a lot of coming and going. Not the kind that requires the police or an ambulance."

_ Then Rainey is at least alive._ She caught herself doing it again. _If he's even the one in the middle of this. I somehow doubt it._ "Alright, I'm going to come in early. Please tell me you've got coffee brewing."

"I've got coffee eating away at the Silex. If you hurry, you might catch it before it dissolves the carafe altogether."

"Why don't you have ulcers?" Carly asked in mock bewilderment, infusing a good dose of sarcasm in her words while she was at it.

"Don't worry about it. You'll just upset your delicate digestion," Leo shot back.

Carly shook her head, and hung up after exchanging a few more pleasantries. _Don't worry. Right._ Something was causing a hullabaloo on the third floor, and while it was unlikely that her patient was the instigator, Carly couldn't shake the possibility of _What if._

* * *

When Carly entered the front doors of Briar Ridge, it was like walking into a center of scrupulously controlled chaos. Everyone was on task – the secretaries and office assistants had their heads bent to their work, orderlies and interns buzzed to-and-fro with purpose, a janitor was waxing the floor of the common room before patients started using it – but there was an air of expectation and excitement held tightly under reign. But Carly could tell that reign was about to break. Something big had definitely happened.

_But first . . . coffee._ With that thought foremost in her mind, Carly strode towards the staff room, intent on getting a cup of hot caffeine and her files for the day. No one was allowed to take coffee out of the staff room – the chance of someone getting scalded in an accident was too high – but if she drank it quickly she should be able to be in and out within minutes.

The coffee was too hot to drink quickly, but Carly didn't have the time to wait for it to cool. She was in the process of adding creamer to cool it when she heard someone in the corridor calling her name. Out of shear perversity, she didn't answer; if they were really looking for her, they'd find her sooner enough, and this promised to be the only quiet moment of her day. It was another two or three minutes before the searcher found her. By that time Carly had donned her jacket, and was preparing to leave the room anyway.

"Dr. Beckham," the unfortunate young man gasped. He leaned against the wall and braced his hands on his knees as he panted, his head bowed to reveal a blond streak in his cropped hair.

Carly just raised an eyebrow and waited for the man to catch his breath before demanding to know why he was looking for her. Since he looked like a fresh nursing recruit from one of the nearby community collages, she had decided to give him a bit of a break. If doctors were too tough on newbies, they lost their nerve and didn't make it past their first year. Carly personally thought that if they couldn't stand tough doctors, then they needed to either toughen up or make a break for it. This wasn't a field for the weak of heart or spirit.

_However, I think this young man is going to make it._ He took no more than twenty or seconds to catch his breath and straighten up. "Dr. Beckham, you're wanted on the third floor. Immediately."

Speed was all well and good, but Carly wanted to know who and what she was rushing for before she expended the energy. "And just who is demanding my presence?"

"Dr. Marchman, ma'am."

_Mort._ Without saying a thing, Carly pushed past the young man in the doorway and made for the elevators.

"Dr. Beckham, wait!"

"I don't like standing still, boy. If you've got something to say, you'd better keep up." While that brisk declaration would have made most people decide that whatever they had to say wasn't worth it, the nurse jogged to catch up with her. Only the few seconds she had to stand and wait for the elevator let him though. They stepped into the elevator together, and Carly turned to the boy. "What's your name? And why aren't you wearing your ID tag?"

The young man flushed. "Toby. Toby McWade. And I was in a hurry this morning and forgot to grab it from my locker."

"McWade?"

"My aunt works in the office."

_Ahh_. Well, perhaps she'd go a bit easier on him then. "I suggest you go get it the first moment you have free, Toby."

"Yes ma'am."

Yes, this one had potential. "Now, what was it you needed to tell me?"

"Just that I was supposed to accompany you back up. Dr. Marchman's orders." A bell dinged as they reached the third floor, and the doors swooshed open. Carly immediately made to walk down the hall that led to Marchman's office, but Toby caught her arm. "We're supposed to meet him outside of a patient's room, doctor."

She nodded and walked towards the visitor checkpoint. The orderly on duty there was just as bored as always, but Carly couldn't figure out why. The feeling of suppressed _tension_ was stronger up here than it had been on the ground floor. _Perhaps all that safety glass blocks out any changes in the environment,_ she thought wryly as she waited for the door to be buzzed open and for a guard to let them through.

The guard who finally came wasn't one she recognized. "Where's Ralph?" she asked as they were taken through the small, caged area and released into the ward.

"He's with Dr. Marchman, Dr. Beckham."

_Too many doctors._ Carly just nodded politely at the guard and started off down the hall, Toby close on her heels. He obviously was urging her to walk faster, but despite her own desire to find out what was either happening or had happened, she knew she had to remain professionally disinterested. At least for the moment.

"Dr. Marchman," she hailed once they came into view of her exalted colleague.

"Dr. Beckham." The man nodded to her, then turned back to the small viewing window that was set into the door he was standing before. It was a familiar door. Every door in the hall looked exactly the same, of course, much like lockers in a grade school. But students had a way of finding their lockers without having to look at numbers, and Carly knew whose door that was.

"What has Rainey done to merit such attention?" she asked coolly, coming to stand next to the man. If he'd been polite, he would have recognized her position as Rainey's head doctor and moved away to let her see for herself, but Marchman did no such thing.

"Tell me, doctor. Did you say anything to Rainey yesterday that would have made the man agitated?"

_Did Rainey have a relapse? Or another panic attack? Is that what this is about?_ But that didn't make sense. If Rainey had hurt himself, he'd be in the infirmary. And if he'd merely been heavily sedated, he wouldn't be drawing this sort of interest.

"Doctor?" Marchman's tone was not patient. He'd asked a question and she'd obviously left him answerless for too long.

"I asked him to think about telling me what happened at the lake. He's been making progress, but he won't make any more unless he can at least try to remember what happened. His denial is a roadblock that has to be moved before we can proceed. You know that."

The implied reprimand was enough to wrench Marchman's attention away from the window. "You are far too insolent, doctor."

"I'm not the one ignoring the common courtesies of telling a doctor what is wrong with her patient. And I think I've been fairly tolerant in waiting for an explanation." In the back of her head, Carly could hear Dr. Holshack telling her that this wasn't the time to get into a confrontation with Marchman, but she couldn't care less. She was tired, on edge, and left out of the loop. Let them complain. She was going to get answers.

"I could make a note of this in your file, doctor."

As threats went, that was a weak one. "My objections are valid. If you wish to take note of them, that is of course your decision."

Whether Marchman decided she was right or just that continued debate of the subject was a waste of time, Carly didn't know. And she didn't particularly care. All that mattered was that he backed out of her way and allowed her to look inside the room.

Words. Walls and walls of words. "Oh my god." Rainey must have worked through the night to write so much, all in a small, scrawling script that was difficult to read from across the room. But it was there, crammed together, taking up the entirety of at least two walls.

She recognized the importance of this almost before the shock of seeing it had fully settled in. "Now will you let him out!?" she exclaimed as she turned to look at Marchman. "You can't just overlook the significance of this. This is an important breakthrough."

"I can't do anything until we know what he's written, doctor. For all we know, he's done nothing but confess to murder a thousand times over."

Carly bristled at that, but forced herself not to protest. Marchman was right. "Why hasn't anyone gone in?"

"We tried." Ralph was the one that answered that question. Carly had almost forgotten he was there; he stood in the shadows behind Marchman, obviously trying to avoid drawing attention to himself. But that he was the one to answer her calmed some of her overwrought nerves. "Several orderlies tried to go in to find out what was going on, but Rainey grew incredibly agitated. Nurse Ratchet and I decided it would be best to wait for you to come in, since Rainey knows you the best. He's used to having you in the room with him."

That made sense, and Carly was grateful for their delicacy in handling this. She thanked Ralph with her eyes, then laid her hand on the doorknob. "If you'll excuse me, Dr. Marchman, I have a patient to tend to." Without waiting for an answer, Carly opened the door and stepped in, closing the door softly behind her.

* * *

Mort worked feverishly to finish. He had to finish. He had to. Before the words disappeared. They clamored in his head. They rolled around and smashed into the sides of his skull in their efforts to get out. If he didn't get them out, he'd lose them.

So much of his concentration was focused on getting the confusion and chaos out of his head, that his mind barely registered the sound of a door opening or closing. But his body was paying attention, even if his mind was elsewhere, and his shoulders tensed as if preparing for a battle of some sort.

_Can't stop. Can't stop. Can't stop._ His left hand flailed at his side as if pushing away imaginary spider webs. _So close._

"Mort?"

_Not here. Not here. Have to finish._ He ignored the person calling his name. They weren't important. Only the story was important. He had to finish it. Unfinished stories were dangerous. He had to finish it. _Have to write. Have to finish. Have to write. Have to finish._

_ But how does it end?_

* * *

Carly was absolutely stunned the moment she stepped into the room. Three walls were covered with close, sprawling writing . . . in crayon. The words started about a foot from the ceiling – if she had to guess she'd say that was as high as Rainey could reach – and continued for an arm's length before moving onto the next line. The effect was that there were several columns of writing along each wall. From up close, Carly could see the small capital letters that formed each word; they were neat, but hurried. As if Mort was running out of time or something.

For a moment she tried to read what was in front of her, but without the beginning of the story it was hard to make sense of it. All that she could really tell was that it was written in the first person, and seemed to be written in the Gothic style. Perhaps her fooling around of the previous day had made more of an impact on Rainey than she'd suspected.

_ I wonder where the story starts._ Looking around, Carly absently noted that the only wall in the room that had no writing was the one with the window in it and for the hundredth time she wondered why Rainey avoided windows so persistently.

"Mort?" She moved into the room, pausing as she crushed a crayon stub under her foot. There were several other stubs scattered across the floor, as if Mort had dropped them the moment they become unusable in his haste to finish what he was doing.

"Why is this so important, Mort?" Until she'd spoken, Mort had ignored her. Now though, he grew a bit agitated, and she kept her distance. But she didn't give up.

"Mort? Can you show me where the story starts? I'd like to read it." The hand flapped again, but this time it seemed to have a direction to it. "Your corner. Is that where you started?" Rainey didn't reply; he just kept scribbling away. Carly could almost feel his desperation, so she didn't try to interrupt again. Interrupting someone in a period of mania could be dangerous. Especially if you were trying to get them stop working on the act of creation that so often went with mania.

So instead, Carly decided to catch up with Mort. If she wanted to better understand what he was doing and why, then she needed to know how he'd spent the night. And that meant finding where the writing on the wall – so to speak – started, and where it went from there. Was it all connected? Had he written an actual story that went from point A, to point B, and so on? Or was it all disjointed and confused, the ventings of a confused and disoriented mind?

Finding his corner, she located what she thought might be the beginning of the story. She was half surprised to find herself reading

_It was a dark and stormy night. The gargoyles on the stone eves of Killingsford Manor seemed to scream in blatant defiance of the unexpected, irregular light. For most it might seem an omen, and looking back, I might think the same, but that night I was filled with expectation and hope. A new beginning away from the horrors of my past. It was a beginning that had come at a dear cost, but I would survive._

It was her story. Or at least, it was her story with a twist. Instead of being written from a female's point of view, the protagonist was a man. He was a tutor, come to Killingsford to further the education of two young men. The owner of the mysterious manor was a widow, no longer young, but no yet middle age. There were rumors among the servants that she had killed her husband because of gambling, infidelity, rage, madness. There was no ends to the reasons, but the cause was all the same: poison. The master had dropped dead in the midst of a party celebrating his fiftieth year. And why was madness in the mistress the favorite choice for why he'd been murdered? Because of the hysterical laughter she'd emitted at seeing his bloodless, goulish face, and the conversation she'd held with someone none of the guests could see. The physician said it was shock, but the servants knew the truth . . .

The story went on and on. Carly read about the widow's two sons. The youngest hadn't spoken since his father died, and the oldest said he saw ghosts. A mysterious man told the hero of the story to leave. Strange accidents started occurring: a maid fell down the stairs and broke her neck after bringing the widow tea, the head groom was killed by a terrified horse after the widow had returned from riding, the widow's favorite lap dog disappeared.

Eventually Carly caught up with Mort. By now the story had progressed to the point where there was a low level of attraction between the tutor and the widow, – whose sanity was doubtful – the servants were all leaving because they believed her mad, – for who actually saw and conversed with ghosts? – and one or more of her sons was in mortal danger from an unknown opponent. It was truly a mess with more than one character displaying symptoms of madness, paranoia, or psychosis. Mort had was staring blankly at the wall while leaving his characters in the midst of a veritable cliff-hanger. Not to mention while leaving Carly in an agony of curiosity. But he made no effort to add or bring the tale any closure.

She had seen enough of Mort himself throughout the tale – fictional events that could be reflections of memories from that autumn on Tashmore Lake if memories could be pulled and teased in the same way as cooling taffy. More to the point, each character seemed to represent _Mort._ Each displayed a characteristic that either she'd seen in him, or had been recorded in his chart. The sons – one unable to communicate after a trauma., the other claiming to talk and see individuals that no one else could. The widow – her guilt that stemmed from her inability to remember whether or not she could have killed her husband. The tutor – his passion even if it was in only wanting to teach and mold young minds instead of writing.

_So why is he having trouble finishing? Is it because he doesn't know the ending yet?_

Carly would have devoted more time to hypothesizing, but Mort was growing more and more agitated by his inability to write. He went so far as to write a line of ellipses before pausing once again, clearly searching for the right words. She heard him make a mangled sound of frustration even as she watched his knuckles whiten as he fisted his hands. The crayon broke.

That action seemed to break through the churnings of his mind, and he panicked. His hands flattened against the wall and he started pounding, his fingers tracing words roughly against the wall.

She knew it was a risk, but Carly had to take it. Very gently she took Rainey's right hand in hers, and slid a pencil into his grip. The broken halves of the crayon fell to the floor and he calmed . . . but he still didn't write.

"What's wrong, Mort? Why can't you finish the story? You've come so far to stop now." He didn't respond, but his hand tensed inside of hers. "What is this story, Mort? What is it that you're trying to tell? Are these people you?" He tried to move away from her, but would have to give up the pencil to do so; he stayed for the time being. "Is that why you can't finish it? Do you not know how the story ends?" His head twitched. "Tell me . . . why don't you finish?"

She had to stand before the blank wall with Rainey's hand in hers for a good five minutes before he showed any signs of responding to her question. Carly waited in patient expectation, unreasonably certain that Mort would answer her when he could tell himself what the answer was.

Her patience did pay off though. Very slowly, doing his best to write while his entire body trembled with exhaustion, fear, or a combination of the two, Mort wrote _I can't remember. . ._

The pencil fell from his fingers as his knees gave out on him. Carly did what she could to help cushion his fall, but he was too much dead weight for her to support. Ralph and Toby rushed in the moment he hit the ground, Ralph making sure she was okay, and Toby catching Mort's shoulders before his head could hit the ground.

"S'okay, Dr. B . . . you go ahead and go talk to Dr. Marchman. I'll take care of our patient here."

"What?" she asked the young man, sounding stupid even in her own ears. This had just totally blown her away.

"To get all the details settled."

"I still don't understand."

"Marchman decided to move our man Rainey down to the check-in ward. Decided he was safe to be moved out of the lifer's. But he wanted a nurse on duty with Rainey at all times."

This stunned Carly. Not so much that Rainey was going to practically have around the clock care, but that Marchman had finally caved. She thanked the psychiatry gods for that blessing.

"Doc? Doctor?"

Her head snapped up and she focused on Toby's face. "Thank you. Yes. I'm going."

* * *

**DISCLAIMER:** I do not own Toby…or at least his appearance. He's based on Johnny Depp's character in 'Lost in La Mancha.'

**Interesting fact:** just because so many (well…two or so) of you said that the writing on the walls bit reminded you of 'Quills' I thought I'd clear up where I got the idea. I confess that it's not mine, but I didn't get it from 'Quills'. I believe it's from one of the season premiere of 'Star Trek: DS9' where Sisco is a writer in the past and he's locked up in a mental hospital because he keeps ranting about star ships. In that, he's using the stump of a pencil to write, and all the walls are covered. That image stuck with me.

**Author's Thanks:** as always, thanks to all who read, and especially to you who reviewed. **pandagal** (I'd love to see some of those doctors brought down a notch or two as well, but I'm not sure about the full recovery. Mort wouldn't be Mort without a few character kinks.); **Dawnie****-7** (You're not the last to say the bit about 'Quills' and frankly, I'm honored. ; ) And I get the feeling that I need to move my plot along, so something tells me Mort might be getting better faster.); **Merrie** (see, told you I'd get this written with you gone. : P And you end in evil places to, so don't complain. And I'm not planning for Shooter to show up. But you know how that goes. ); **Sternenlicht** (I'm glad I was able to make your day. I love updating, and reviews make my day, so I'd say we're even. ; ) The bad writing bit was too good to pass up. I hope your friend enjoys this as much as you do, and I'm honored that you thought to recommend it. Thank you.); **Nithke** (lol. Sounds like Mort is in an egg. I hope this chapter was as good as the last.); **vanillafluffy** (WOW. Your review was really great to read. I'm glad that you're finding all this enjoyable, because I certainly love writing it. It's not crap I make up for a living, but it'll do. ; ) Thank you for the compliments to Carly, and I'm glad you find some the humor I put in because I think its funny too. And the reason for intermittent posting is I'm also writing an OUATIM fic, and by the time I get a chapter of that done, I'm no longer in the mindset for this one, and then I finish a chapter of this, and have to jump to that…. I hope you see my dilemma. ); **Gaze** (yes, Mort is indeed showing them. Now all we need is for him to keep showing them because I'm going to start making things a little freaky. smiles manically); **Spidy****-fan** (love the new SN. And yes, I love my cliffhangers. Hope I didn't leave you hanging for too long.); **HumiliatedGrape** (lol, I can see why you didn't notice it sooner. I seem to have a habit of re-writing clichés, so I'm easy to pass by at times. And Steve…I love Steve. He's a good foil. Hope this chapter didn't disappoint.); **puremalevolence** (what can I say? For this enormous review, I hope mine were satisfactory. I gotta admit you've got a certain brilliance for those one-shots. I admit to only taking one semester of psych in my entire life, and it was more the biology of senses and how they effect us than mental disorders. But I did do my homework – online and in a psych book I bought dirt cheap on Amazon – because I do like to sound like what I'm talking about is passably plausible. And I have not seen 'Quills.' I hope you saw that explanation further up. Anyway, just many thanks, and I hope to hear from you again.); **PirateBlacksmith** (Thank you so much for the review. Each and every one I get brightens my day and inspires me, even if for another fandom. I kept up my end of the bargain, hope you got to do the same. ); **SS** (I do not apologize for the ending. It's what keeps you coming back. The ending is the most important part of the…chapter. ; ) I update as soon as I can. : P ); **Spoofmaster** (No, I don't believe in trite romances. If this even heads in the same direction as romance, I can guarantee it'll be anything but trite. ); **Wayward Slinky** (You wrote more than I can ever hope to respond to, so I'm just going to work of your review for chap. 7 and _thank you_ strongly for the rest. ; ) I hope this wasn't too unsettling…I'm saving that for later. But if curiosity brings you back, who am I to complain? : P I got tired of seeing fics that matched Mort with a woman writer, so I decided almost from page one that Carly wouldn't be good at it. For awhile she was a freelance editor in her free time, but I decided even that was too close to what Mort does, so I scrapped it. And I totally agree about character faults. It's what makes humans human, and most of us want to read about people we can relate to. And as for you wanting more from me, I want more from you too. So get to it! : P)


	9. Chapter Eight

**Author's Note:** less than a month! No. Wait. Crap. Yesterday was a month. Shoot. Well, the next chapter should be lots of fun to write, lots of stuff will be happening, and for now I shall be satisfied with all the questions that will doubtlessly be raised due to this chapter. evil grin Go on, go read. shoos away spectators

Author thanks at end.

* * *

Just how preposterous and bureaucratic could something as simply as a change of location get? The go-ahead to move Rainey to another ward had come a week ago, but before action could be taken, the politicians and insurance people had to be satisfied that the necessary precautions were being taken, and that enough safeguards had been put in place to mollify even the most paranoid of government insurances agent. And all that had been in addition to inter-agency meetings with administrators, head nurses from both wards, orderlies, etc.

Needless to say, Carly hadn't had much time to spend with her patient. The hours she _did _spend with him were filled with paperwork, which she didn't hesitate to so in his presence. It reminded her why all the legal B.S. was worth it. Besides, she was really only there to supervise Toby while he got acquainted with Mort.

It was a nuisance – the paperwork, not the observation – but it was necessary. So was watching Toby work with Mort, who would be spending more time with Rainey than she would. It wasn't enough for Rainey to trust just one person, he needed to learn to trust Toby, who was just the first of many to come. And for him to learn to trust, he needed to see that the one familiar person in his limited landscape was comfortable with the newcomer.

_I suppose there is a plus side to all this delay and paperwork_, Carly thought one afternoon as she sat at the table in the staff room, yet another stack of forms set before her. _It gives me time to get his room ready._

And it was true. In the past week, she'd gone to inspect the small room that Rainey would be spending much of his time in. It was a bit larger than the room he was currently in; it had a tiny bathroom with a sink, a toilet, a mirror, and small shower stall – he'd still be using the communal shows for the time being, so the water was turned off – which was a definite improvement. There were also two electrical sockets, a light switch since there wasn't a lights out on the second floor, a small closet and dresser for clothes, a few shelves, etc., not that he possessed anything to fill any space in the room. _I'll have to contact Mrs. Rainey and get some of his belongs. Clothes, and books, and whatnot._

But even with all the improvements, there were two features that Carly hadn't liked. The sterile, white walls for one, and the bigger windows. She'd thought the walls were too impersonal, too expectant. They made her want to do something, and she wasn't given to being bothered by someone so small as blank walls. She couldn't say the same for Mort; it was nothing more than a feeling, but she suspected that if some color wasn't put in here, Mort would end up climbing the walls. Or writing on them. And the janitors tended to look down on that.

The large picture windows bothered her the most though. They looked down directly into the vegetable garden she'd help found, and though _she_ enjoyed the view, she'd also seen how Rainey avoided even the small amounts of sunlight than came in through the windows in his current room. She could only imagine what he'd do around these.

_So fix it._ She'd hunted down the head custodian and quizzed him relentlessly about what it would take to get the walls painted and blinds put up. Joe – who was still upset that she'd made him find a new parking spot, one well away from the custodian's entrance that just happened to be under Mort's room – was unhelpful and told her to talk to the head caretaker. The caretaker was in charge of both facilities and grounds, but was so busy that he usually left the running of both to Joe and Todd respectively. She'd interrupted right in the middle of the inventory and requisition that the state required each quarter, and he'd sent her to talk to Dr. Holshack, who could theoretically do whatever the hell he wanted.

Carly had spent an hour in Adam's office, and he heard her out with a small smile of amusement on his face as she vented her frustrations to him. But even though she'd been whining – his words, not hers – he okayed the renovations. So Rainey's room was painted a warm honey color – ironically called 'Parchment' – and a set blinds had been installed. She was excited about the blinds – they could be raised at the bottom and/or lowered at the top. It was her plan to lower them from the top, an inch at a time, until Rainey grew used to seeing the outside world.

And then she'd _take_ him outside.

_But first . . . paperwork._ Carly sighed and looked around the windowless, artificially lit room. It was cool, somewhat dingy, and smelled of coffee; one light in the corner was buzzing and flickering on and off in the manner of a fluorescent bulb that was about to go out . . . in another few days. _Maybe "outside" isn't such a bad idea,_ she decided.

Gathering her things, she checked in with Leo to make sure her schedule was clear for the next few hours and to make sure that someone knew where she was if she was needed. Carly had her pager, but it was always smart to make human contact when leaving the building as well. For a single woman well aware of some of the reasons her patients ended up here, it was second nature.

It took a good five minutes to walk the length of the ground floor and escape out a pair of French doors, but she made it with only a few people asking her to stop and talk. Carly had excused herself each time by saying that she was expected outside. It was only a small lie, and she needed to be surrounded by nature, to out of the artificially lit, cooled, and scented building. Life was depressing enough without having to live like that.

She made a bee-line for her willow-shaded bench and made it there in record time. Somewhat more relaxed and able to focus, she pulled out her forms and a pen, and got to work. The sky was incredibly blue, rimed with fluffy white piles of clouds. The grass was blue, the wind was blowing gently, and ducks were quacking on the pond. Carly didn't let any of it distract her, she had too much to do and focus on, but her sub-conscious soaked it up.

It was over an hour later before she was disturbed, and by then it was a welcome interruption.

"Hello . . . hello Dr. Beckham."

Stretching her neck a bit to work out kinks, Carly turned her head to find Michael standing beside her. She truly liked Michael. He was a considerate, gentle person despite what his disorder sometimes caused him to do. "Hello, Michael. How are you?"

"I . . . I saw someone up here. I . . . I remembered this was your favorite. So . . . so I came up. I've . . . I've been waiting for you to visit."

"You should have told me, Michael, and I would have come out sooner." She moved her things to make room for him on the bench. He sat down carefully, as if he wasn't sure if he was supposed to or not. "Are you enjoying your work?"

"I . . . I miss you. But . . . but I like to garden."

"I remember. You and I made that one, didn't we?" She gestured towards the far-off vegetable garden.

"Mister . . . Mister Graham says it was a good idea. He . . . he says you're smart."

"Michael!" she teased, "Don't let him say that. You know it was your idea. You're the one that wanted to get dirty and plant things."

"I . . . I just said I wanted to. You . . . you let me."

It was actually Todd who'd let them, but she wouldn't quibble over that point.

"You're . . . you're busy?"

Carly sighed and thought about that understatement. "I'm in the midst of filling out masses and mounds of paperwork. I have a new patient who's about to be moved to the second floor ward –"

"A . . . a new patient?" Was she imagining things, or was there a hint of unhappiness in his voice? Almost against her will, she remember the tantrum that had followed his discovery that she had seen other patients while she'd treated him. He'd accused her of telling them about him. But she'd thought that he'd come to understand that she had to treat many people. "What's . . . what's their name?"

"You know I can't tell you that, Michael," Tess said slowly but firmly. "It's against the rules."

"Will . . . will you bring them out? To . . . to the garden?"

"Maybe. I'd like to do that. But I don't think he likes outside very much."

"Where's . . . where's he from?"

"Maine." Michael was getting nosy, and she needed to discourage that. "How's the garden this year?"

He readily changed topics. "It's . . . it's early. It's . . . it's spring. We've . . . we've only just started planting."

"Really?"

"Had . . . had to wait for the soil to warm up. It's . . . it's cold in this part of Maine. In . . . in spring."

"Do you have anything planted?" While he'd been in her care, they'd spent many hours talking about gardens and plants and seasons. She remembered those conversations and made use of them now.

"Peas . . . peas, and potatoes, and cabbage, and broccoli. We'll . . . we'll plant beets, and carrots, and tomatoes, and corn later."

"Sounds like you've got big plans." Carly gathered her paperwork, took off her shoes, and set upside down on top of it as a paperweight. Michael would probably want to show her things. He'd always liked getting attention.

"Mister . . . mister Graham let me choose."

"That was nice of Todd. Does he like what you're doing?"

"Do . . . do you want to see?" Carly nodded and stood. "You'll . . . you'll like it."

"I'm sure I will." They walked down the hill towards the more populated areas of the grounds. "Are you going to plant sunflowers?"

"You . . . you like sunflowers," he said, as if pulling the memory forward through many others. "I'll . . . I'll tell Mr. Graham we need to plant some."

"That's alright, Michael. You don't have to."

"They're . . . they're nice. Like . . . like you. I'll . . . I'll tell Mr. Graham."

"If that's what you want to do."

"It . . . it is."

An hour later when someone tracked her down to deal with some mess that had to do with reimbursement for money spent for paint or some such nonsense, Carly was reluctant to go back. It was nice to spend time with patients – not that any of them were presently hers – in such an undemanding environment. All that went on was interaction; there were no tests, no evaluations, no expectations. She talked when someone wanted to talk to her, and pulled weeds in her bare feet when no one did. But the orderly was insistent that she come back and deal with the bureaucrat on the other end of the phone herself, so Carly regretfully bid the out of doors farewell.

She didn't notice that Michael watched her until she disappeared inside the hospital.

* * *

She was a nice person. Too good for the people here. She needed to be taken away from all this. From the filth. The disease. The darkness. Before it overtook her.

The wind caught her hair, blowing it out around her shoulders. She was wearing white; her spine was straight and her gait was easy. There was no danger of the wind blowing her away. She was too substantial, too real for that. So very, very real. More than anything else he'd seen.

She was a goddess and he worshiped her. And it was up to him to protect her. He remembered how a shovel, a tool, an axe felt in his hands, and how it'd felt to use it. Not to grow things; not to build things. He understood now why he'd done those things. It was for her. He could do it again to protect her. He'd take her away from all this, take her somewhere where she wouldn't have to deal with those stacks of forms – he'd seen them. And when he got her there, he'd worship her, and she'd know.

She would be grateful.

She would be pure.

She would be his.

* * *

"I sent in the receipts," Carly said in a slow, patient voice. "I made copies of them, I included a note explaining what it was for, and the signatures of the hospital administrator, caretaker, and head janitor, saying that the work was authorized." If she didn't get this reimbursement, she'd be over her quarterly budget, and then she'd have accountants tracking her down. Soon after that, things would get ugly.

"I'm sorry, Dr. Beckham, but we don't have any of this on file. But if you fill out form 872-01-357B, and include the signatures of your administrator. . . ."

Carly stopped paying attention all together. She'd already heard and done this, and she'd be damned if she let the state work her into a tail-chasing frenzy. While she was at it, she'd damn every person who worked for the state in any capacity.

"Excuse me? I'm looking for Dr. Beck–" Carly threw up a hand to forestall any more questions. She'd get to them once she'd straightened this mess up.

"I hate to interrupt –" The man started again! She turned and glared at him, pulled the phone away from her ear as if threatening to make him listen to the poor secretary on the other side, then turned her back again.

"Listen. I've already filled out steps A-Q once. You lost the paperwork. I am going to send the copy I made for our own files, and you are going to see to it that it makes it to the right desks for the right signatures, so my budget doesn't get docked next quarter. Thank you for your time." Carly resisted slamming the phone down, but wasn't able to suppress all her irritation. And her interruption was a good enough vessel for her to unleash it on. She had to calm down before she went to visit Rainey, or he'd pick up on her vibes, and the day would lose any promise it had started with.

"How may I help you?"

Encouraged by this polite question after her rude treatment, the man stepped forward, hand extended. "Mick Lawley. I'm looking for a Dr. Beckham?"

Carly didn't like this. The man before her looked like a Fed, and she could only think of one reason someone like that would like to talk to her.

Ignoring his extended hand, she crossed her arms over her chest and leaned back against the counter. "I'm Dr. Beckham."

He looked skeptical. "You're Dr. Charley Beckham."

"I'm Dr. _Carly_ Beckham. And just who are you? Or more precisely, why do you want to talk to me?" She was inordinately pleased by the embarrassment that showed on his clean-shaven face.

"My apologies, doctor. My office must have misheard your receptionist."

Evasion. She hated evasion. "That's all well and good, but that doesn't explain why we're having his conversation."

"Actually, it does," Lawley ginned, setting his briefcase on the table. "I'm actually A.D.A Lawley, and I was wondering if you could help me with some of the specifics of the Rainey case."

That's what she'd been afraid of. Her contract stipulated that she had to assist the State in any cases it chose to prosecute if the defendant was under her care. She was also allowed to talk and assist the patient's lawyer, but that didn't she enjoyed this part of things. The last patient she'd had go to court for had been Michael, in that case there had been no question that he hadn't known what he was in trouble for – t]he same couldn't be said of Rainey. The experience had been so distasteful that she'd avoided being assigned to cases where she might have to repeat it. There were other doctors on staff that enjoyed hearings and court dates, and Carly was glad to leave them to it.

Lawley must have seen some of her feelings over the matter appear on her face, for he was quick to assure her. "I'm not here to headhunt, or witch hunt, or man hunt, or even to start a crusade. I'm just here to get a deposition from you about Mr. Rainey's mental state. I will want to talk to Rainey himself, of course, but –"

"I'd be glad to tell you what I know, Mr. Lawley, but I'm afraid I can't let you talk to my patient. Not that it would do you any good since he hasn't spoken in over months." Some of her exasperation broke through her cool exterior. "And just what do you think you're doing anyway? I thought the case wasn't going to trial for months yet."

"It's not, but Martinson – my boss – is eager to get as much of the case squared away now, before going to trial. He wants to make sure that defense doesn't get Rainey off on a technicality due to negligence on our part."

Once again she pulled her mantle of nonchalance around her. The man in front of her had responded much too quickly to her brief flash of emotion for her to be comfortable. "And just what is your boss going to suggest as a sentence for my patient?" she inquired, to get his attention off her and onto something else. His job for instance.

It was a question she shouldn't have asked. Carly knew the answer before he said anything, just from the serious look on his face. "If it's decided that Rainey was incapable of rational thought at the time when he's accused of murdering one Mr. Tom Greenleaf and Mr. Greg Carstairs, then he'll be sentenced to life in a psychiatric facility in their ward for the criminally insane."

"And if he's not?" She knew, but she wanted to force him to say it.

"Then he'll be sentenced to life imprisonment, with a strong suggestion for the death penalty."

"And why am I talking to you?"

"Because you can either do it willingly, or I can subpoena you. Not to mention that a note will be made in your record that you had to be forced to comply to your contractual obligations."

_Note to self – don't antagonize lawyers. They have no sense of humor._ "Mr. Lawley, I'd love to talk to you, but I'm afraid that my time for the rest of the day is taken."

"Then come by my office tomorrow –"

"Tomorrow is Saturday, and my day off. I already have plans that can't be changed."

"Then let me talk to Rainey –"

"I already told you," Carly said very softly, "that Rainey isn't to be disturbed at the moment. He's to be moved to the lodger's ward on Monday, and I'd like his schedule to remain the same until then, and for a few weeks after. He's very excitable, and I won't let you disturb him." She could win this time, and they both knew it. "Unless you want to flout my authority with my own patients," which would cause war amid his office and her superiors as they both knew, "then I suggest you be patient and gather your depositions from other sources."

"Or you could have dinner with me."

"What?" How had they gotten from an anything but fond farewell, to a proposition?

"Have dinner with me. We can kill two birds with one stone. You get to relax, and I can get the initial questioning done for my deposition."

"Dinner with the enemy. I'm not sure that sounds like a 'relaxing' time." Carly gathered her things to leave the room.

"I don't have to be your enemy, Dr. Beckham. If Rainey truly deserves to be kept in an institution, then I have no problem ensuring that he stays there. But I need your cooperation to do that."

"What are you suggesting?" she asked, angry indignation coloring her voice. "A little of this hand washes that?" She snorted. "I'm afraid my goodwill isn't for sale at the price of a cheap dinner. You have to earn it."

"I wasn't suggesting anything," Lawley shot back, his own irritation getting the better of him. "I was simply hoping that we could turn what is _obviously_ a painful experience for you, into something a little bit more pleasant. We're going to have to work together on some level whether you like it or not, Dr. Beckham. I 'suggest'," he practically threw the air quotes at her, "that you think about that." He picked up his briefcase. "My office will call later next week to set up an appointment with you."

Carly watched as he left in a huff, vaguely satisfied with herself, and vaguely wondering why she'd been such a cat.

After a half hour of pacing and upbraiding several summer volunteers – candy-stripers – about the state of a meal tray that'd been left in the middle of a corridor, Carly felt that she'd worked off enough of her irritation to go see Mort. She was late, but it was better late than upset. Rainey was still to sensitive to the emotions of others to let him be around her when she was so volatile.

So it was in a slightly better mood that she arrived at the third floor in. She was polite and civil with Betty and Ralph, thinking that she'd have to stop by to see them now and again when she no longer had a reason to come up. They were good people, dedicated to staff and patients alike. Carly might even go so far as to say that she'd miss them.

Toby was waiting outside Mort's door, lounging against the wall and humming some song Carly didn't know under his breath. He grinned when he saw her, and gave her the "hang loose" sign. She grinned. The boy was irrepressible. His upbeat personality was just what Mort needed to be exposed to.

"Dr. B, you're late."

"Yeah, I'll tell you about that later." She stepped back to let Ralph open the door. "Let's go in, shall we?" Following her own advice and leaving Toby to copy her actions, Carly stepped into the room. "Hello, Mort. How are you today?"

Rainey turned towards her, cocked his head, then returned his attention to the blank page of paper before him. As far as Carly – or anyone else who interacted with him – could tell, it was the same blank sheet of paper that had sat in front of him since Monday. She was disappointed that he hadn't written again lately, but then, just having him concentrating on a single thing was a step forward.

"Still stumped? I'm sure Toby would be glad to help you. He talks enough for all of us." Rainey shifted in his chair, imperceptively leaning forward as if to protect his property. "Well, maybe he'll have to make do with another piece of paper, hmm?" That earned her a covert glance in her direction.

"It's all good. My man Mort doesn't mind sharing, now does he?" Toby took the seat next to – but not too close to – Rainey, and pulled over a small stack of paper. "Let me tell you, my girl appreciates all this time I have to sit around and write poems for her. She says they've improved since I've started to spend so much with a real writer." Mort just looked at the younger man and scooted towards the end of the chair that was the farthest away from him. "Aww, you're hurtin' me man. You have to admit that your generous editing of my humble limericks is the reason they're now bearable."

Carly smiled at Toby's approach. While she treated Mort gently, Toby treated him like one of the guys. He didn't speak down to the mute author, instead choosing to treat every monologue as if it were a dialogue. At first Rainey had been put off by this, but he was growing used to it.

"Just tell him to stuff it," she softly advised Mort, brushing the back of his hand with the first two fingers of her right hand. As she drew the hand back, she drew his attention with it, which was what she'd been aiming for.

"Mort, I'm going to get some of your things from . . ." It was probably unwise to say "from the cabin." "From storage. We're going to be moving you to a new room on Monday," he looked suspicious, "and I was wondering if there was anything you wanted. A favorite book? A sweater?" She looked at his perpetually tousled hair. "A brush? A painting?" He stared at her blankly, as if her words were a message he had to slowly and painstakingly translate. "Here." She wrote out her request on a new sheet of paper – the last time she'd tried to use one he'd claimed, he'd flipped out.

Rainey examined her handwriting, tracing several letters and frowning. Carly knew she didn't have the best handwriting in the world, but it was legible. He shouldn't have any difficultly understanding her.

"I don't think he likes the way you make you shorthand 'ands', doc." Carly looked at the paper. She did make her "and" symbols differently than everyone else. Hers were "3's" while everyone else made theirs as "E's". She'd always done it that way, and probably always would. "Habit," she muttered to her male audience, before clearing her throat and repeating her question.

Mort considered it this time, taking nearly a half an hour to come to a conclusion. When he _did_ come to it, it was a bit anti-climatic; he shook his head. _No._

_Don't look at it as defeat,_ Carly scolded herself as she watched Mort go back to his staring match with his friend Mr. Blank Page. _A month ago, and he wouldn't have even given me that much. He's slowly but surely recovering. The move will help once he adjusts to it. New surrounds. More to engage him._

After talking some sense into herself, Carly also took the time to remind her dissatisfied mind that she'd expected that he wouldn't want to ask for anything. That was why Mrs. Rainey was going to meet her at Mort's cabin tomorrow. Ted was insisting that the house be put on the market, and Carly wanted to get some things for Mort. She also wanted to see the setting for the tragedy that'd sent him to Briar Ridge. If she could get a better sense of his surroundings last fall, then perhaps she'd get some insight into her patient along with some clothes.

* * *

**Author's Thanks:** many thanks to **Sternenlicht** (I like making people's days. It's fun. I'm glad you find that I'm sticking close to the 'spirit' of Mort, because I'm pretty sure that Johnny was channeling Steven King when he was making that movie. It was so close to the Mort I'd read about. I'm trying to work in more Mort, but there's things I need to get set up and out of the way before I can really get to him. One of the things is the cabin, one is the ADA, and one is the move. I can see the next chapter having a great deal of Mort in it, and I look forward to writing it just as you do to reading it.); **FunkyFries** (I lime the name! Anyway, I'm so glad that you're loving _this_. That is one of the perks of posting your work. Carly is a psychiatrist – she can dispense medications. That is one of the differences, right? Thank you for the French. I can't speak it, but I'm impressed by anyone who can speak a second language.); **pandagal** (More and more better? : P Kidding. Hope this is better too.); **Wayward** **Slinky** (in the book it's repeated several times that Mort draws his inspiration for his stories from what's happening around him, people he's met, places he's been. That they are "translated" through his stories into new things, and people, and places. I thought that he'd keep that quirk, and I called on it. It's in character because I did my research. ; ) Woo-hoo! Another Trekkie!); **Dawnie****-7** (Poor Mort…and I'm not done with him. I'll have to let you have him after the story for comforting…because he's going to need it. looks evil); **CleopatraVII** (Thanks for taking the time to review, and I hope to hear from you again. I also hope that this satisfied you for the moment.); **Nithke** (another person using French! Woo-hoo! laughs at the image of Mort as a chick); **Spidey**-**Fan** (I'm glad that I'm not going too slow for you. I look at what I've got, I look where Steven King started, and I wonder why I didn't start the story with chapter four. : P); **Sparrow** **Lover** (I hope this chapter wasn't a disappointment. Thanks for taking the time to review.); **SS** (Nothing is ever long enough for you, so I'll stop trying to drag chapters out. I figured you might appreciate Toby too. I know FF loves him. grins Just hope this chapter was good enough for now, and that you eventually got to get to it.); **Merrie** (I knew you'd like Toby. : D I like Bast too. Typical cat. And I agree; cliffies are the best way to end chapters. ({ evil laugh); **Humiliated** **Grapes** (Thanks for the many compliments, and I hope you like this chapter just as much as the rest); **A Cheerful** **Reader** (I have no experience and very small amounts of knowledge in the field of mental health. I just know how to do research before writing about something, or at least enough to sound fairly competent. I'm good at bluffing. A stay in the looney bin? That sounds interesting. You'll have to tell me whether I'm way off base or not because I have no clue what I'm talking about when it comes to this hospital's environment.); **Spoofmaster** (NO! No Mort romance! He's not ready! Sorry, I feel strongly on the subject. I've got a Mortish character in my life, and I know how he'd react to a romance so soon from loosing his wife. But I'm glad that you approve. Some people don't care and only want their fluff. Or smut.); **PirateBlackSmith** (Wow, I'm glad that you're seeing everything that vividly. I know I'm doing my job if you can. I hope you'd consider this chapter a great one.); **Esmeralda** **Sparrow** (I tried. Hope this was soon enough. ); **Amy** (Wooooow….I'm in awe. Thank you so much for taking that time to write that novel (and I enjoyed every moment of it ) I'm glad that you like my characters and find them to be well-rounded, and thrilled that all my borrowed characters are behaving themselves and staying in character. I admit that I think Amy got short-changed in the movie, but there wasn't time to make anyone but Mort a sympathetic character. I prefer the Amy of the book though, because she seems more conflicted. Movie Amy doesn't seem to give a damn. Book Amy hurts too, if not as much as Mort. As for Amy coming to visit Mort again? I don't know. It might happen. If I was compared to Johnny Depp in your review in terms of being original inside this genre, then I'm more than honored. Thanks. Normal Mort – (long review, lots of points to hit), I think it was David Koepp that pointed out that at the end, the more normal Mort acted, the more insane he really was. Thanks for the compliments to Carly. I was afraid she was a clone of another of my characters at first, but she's developed her own personality, so that's good. I agree with the counts of grammar and spelling. People who don't use what their computer comes with confuse me sometimes. How hard is it to run a spell and grammar check? It's a pet peeve of mine, and I try to make sure I don't make too many mistakes, or I'd be a hypocrite and have to stop complaining. What fun would that be? I hope you enjoyed this chapter very much, and I hope to hear from you again.)


	10. Chapter Nine

**Author's Note: OMG!!!! Long chapter! I didn't mean for it to get this long, but then I promised everyone lots of Mort, and I had to deliver. So I hope this forestalls any complaints if I don't get another chapter out for awhile. ; ) Not that I'm planning to take my time, of course.**

* * *

_I knew there was a reason I never ventured into the backwoods,_ Carly groused to herself on her third return trip to the small town of Tashmore Lakes. Despite having spent her early years in a suburb of Augusta, Carly was at heart a townie. She navigated by buildings, familiar intersections, and street signs. Here there were nothing but tree after rank of trees. It looked very nice, and beautiful, and rustic, but she would have enjoyed it more if she'd been in the passenger seat and someone else had been driving. _Time to stop and ask for directions._

She pulled into a parking spot in front of what was quaintly described as "Bowie's General Store and Diner." Leisurely, she climbed out of her now dust-ridden car, and looked around. This town was part of Rainey's refuge. Perhaps not the part that would tell her the most about him and what he'd been thinking and/or feeling, but it would perhaps show her. . . . _I don't know. His public face, perhaps. There has to be a reason he fled to Tashmore, a reason other than he owned property here. He makes enough money to have taken refuge anywhere. So there must have been at least a little about the town that appealed to him._

The town was very . . . picturesque. It was still early enough in the morning and in the spring that the rising sun made what was undoubtedly a mountain-fed lake steam. The trees were still pale green with brand new growth. A small gazebo in what seemed to be the town square gleamed white with fresh paint, as did a large, grange-style building several streets down the block.

As for the people, there were several young couples out walking dogs before heading to work, a few kids on bicycles – some with backpacks, one delivering papers – or skateboards. She could hear someone behind the store off-loading crates of goods. A few older men dressed in overalls and hats proclaiming the names of farming equipment walked up the stairs and entered the store. It was all very . . . normal. Slow-paced. Undemanding. Impersonal.

_Impersonal?_ Carly had to think about why she thought that. Perhaps it was the way that not one person here had yet met her eyes, even though they threw curious glances at her. No one had made an effort to greet her. No one had said anything, even though she was sure that at least the boy with the paper route had seen her come and go at least once, if not more.

If this was how the citizenry always acted, then Carly could see how this could have appealed to Mort. Fresh from finding out about his wife's affair and heading towards divorce proceedings, he would have been hurt and depressed. This was a place he could come and still be alone in the midst of a crowd. People were polite, but unobtrusive. If he started to look disheveled, tired, strained, he might get looks, but no one would press for information. It was the worst type of environment a depressed person could root themselves in, and the kind that most ran to.

Carly didn't think this was meant as a permanent residence. It was too long of a commute for other things that he'd eventually need. The general store was nice, but he'd have to go to Berlin which was the closet big town and over the New Hampshire state border, for major shopping, for printer cartridges, or for car repairs. This was meant as a quick fix, but it'd dragged on as Mort had kept himself isolated which would only aggravate depression.

_Okay, so I've seen the town and I don't think I'll get much more from it. I just need to talk to a few people, find out where the cabin is, then get out there._

Stepping over a puddle – it must have rained the day before – Carly walked up to the store and went inside. Too late, she realized that the screened door was the same kind her grandma had had. The homemade door slammed behind her, and she internally cringed, but didn't let it show. A few old timers at the bar turned their heads and stared blankly at her. She shrugged and walked over to them, taking a seat at an unoccupied chair.

"Mornin'," an older lady greeted Carly, coming over with a coffee pot. Without asking if the doctor wanted any, she turned over her cup and filled it. "You another lawyer?"

"Excuse me?" The question took her by surprise. What did the woman mean by, "_another_ lawyer"?

"You're not from the district attorney's office?"

Carly noticed that the men along the bar seemed to be listening to the conversation, as if they too had something at stake. "No, although I suppose I work for the same people. When was . . . my colleague . . . here?"

The denial of being a lawyer had killed some of the woman's – Gerda by her nametag – interest in her. "Few months back. A guy killed a couple men, then tried to do in his ex. A pity really. He was such a quiet guy. A little strange, but then again, he was a writer." Gerda set her carafe back on a warmer, seemingly interested enough in Carly to go ahead and relate the town dirt. "Famous guy too. His name was Mort Rainey. Heard of him?"

"I own one of his books," Carly replied in a non-committal tone. "Haven't read all of it yet."

"He knew what he was doing, I can tell you that. We never expected him to loose it like that. His wife was the one that did it to him. Can't figure out why."

"His wife?"

"Yeah. Mrs. Rainey was a real friendly sort. Spent a lot of time up at Bocker's nursery, looking at plants for her garden. She'd drop by for a cup of tea and some conversation now and then. I think she missed city life during the summers they were here. But Mr. Rainey preferred his privacy, and he never even seemed to realize she was gone."

"Why do you say that?"

That question earned Carly a hard look. "You sure you're not a lawyer? Poking around like this?"

"I'm sure. You've just got me interested is all." Interested because anything she could learn, especially about the dynamics of the Rainey's relationship, could be helpful. Amy had said that she didn't think Mort had wanted to kill her, but she was too close to the situation. Outsiders sometimes had better insights.

"Well, every once in awhile, before he stopped smoking, Mr. Rainey would drop by for a pack of L&M's. I'd ask something about Mrs. Rainey, mentioning that she'd told me the last she'd been in town, and he'd get this blank look on his face, as if trying to remember whether or not he'd known she'd left the house."

"So what made him snap, do you think?" Carly took a sip of her coffee and winced; she didn't think it was possible, but she'd just found a brew stronger than Leo's. She dumped in a few packets of sugar.

"Dunno. Perhaps just too much time alone. The last time he came out, after the split, he only came into town every two weeks or so. Wouldn't say much when he did either. But like I said, we never expected him to murder anyone. 'Specially not Greg or Tom."

"Why not them?" Was there someone in the community that people thought would eventually be murdered in there sleep?

"Well, Tom was getting' pretty close to being an octogenarian, and Tom had a wife and two kids. Both of them had known Rainey since he bought the house about six years ago. Tom at least was the closest thing Rainey had to a friend around here."

Another customer came in, and Gerda left her position at the counter to pour them a cup of her paint-thinner brew, and to take their order. When she came back, she was all business again. "So where you headed?"

"The Rainey place actually."

Gerda looked at her suspiciously. "Real estate? Well, it's about time the place was put up. It needs some new memories."

Carly shook her head and handed over one of her business cards. "I'm actually Mr. Rainey's doctor."

"A shrink. Well, that's a first."

"Actually, the only thing I've ever shrunk in my life is laundry." Carly hated the term 'shrink.' It made it sound as if she dealt with deflating oversized egos. "I actually came in to get directions. I thought I knew where I was going, but after having to double back for the third time, I can take a hint."

"You following a map?" Carly nodded. "Well, they pushed the highway through two years ago, getting rid of some of the access roads. Now you just take the highway up to access road 15, turn left on Androscoggin road, and follow that until it turns into the Rainey's driveway."

"Thank you." Carly started to get up, but was stopped by another question.

"You meeting someone up there?"

"Mrs. Rainey."

"She thinking about selling?"

"I believe so, yes." This time Carly managed to get off her seat and almost out the door before _she_ had a question to ask. "Umm, do you remember the name of the lawyer who was here a few months ago?"

"Sure. Easy enough name to remember considering his profession. It was Lawley."

Once again Carly gave her thanks, before climbing into her car and driving down the highway. If she drove a little faster than the posted limit, it certainly wasn't because she was focused more on the A.D.A. than on how fast the trees were going by.

It wasn't.

* * *

By the time she reached the cabin, Carly only had a half an hour to explore before she was supposed to meet Amy. With luck, Rainey's ex-wife would be a little late. Carly would have had time to form some impressions by then, and she'd probably be ready for some company. It was just too quiet up here in the mountains.

There wasn't much to see in front, except for overgrown shrubs and some tall weeds. Wandering through mud to the back of the house, Carly took in the stream that led down to the most remote of Tashmore's lakes. There were three of them, each being progressively smaller, with the town built on the shores of the biggest. They were named "Love," "Faith," and "Hope" respectively. Somewhat ironic, but she didn't pay too much attention to it.

The entire area around the house was hemmed in with trees, making the small clearing dark even at noon. When things were well cared for, Carly was sure that the house and grounds looked very nice, very relaxing. But with weeds growing through the gravel in the driveway, and fir branches crowding the eaves, and out of control junipers threatening the windows, the little house merely looked lost, alone, and very isolated. _This was not a good place for Rainey to end up._

The sky clouded, and she could see rain moving towards her across the lake. Having no desire to get wet, Carly moved into the shelter of the screened porch. It wasn't a big area, or at least it wasn't while cluttered with rusted metal pieces of what might have once been farm equipment lined against the outside wall, and several tables, a couch, and what looked to be a seat out of a car on the inside. To Carly's inexperienced eyes, they looked as if they'd been rescued from a junk market and were sitting around waiting for something to be done with them. Remembering that Amy was an antiques broker, perhaps that was what they'd originally been meant for. Perhaps they were going to be sold, or restored, or simply used for pieces, but whatever future they'd had had been changed the moment the Rainey's had split. She could imagine Mort sitting around in the same rusts fashion, once sitting and waiting for his wife to do something with him, then sitting abandoned.

Carly tried the door, but it was locked. _I suppose I'll look around here some more,_ she sighed, once again turning to look at the porch. _What's this?_ Carly spotted a pair of scissors, very out of place on the porch. She bent down to look at them, and got a queasy feeling; there was a very small lock of pale hair stuck in them. These had last been used as a weapon.

Before she could obsess on this fact for too long, she heard the crunch of tires on gravel as someone drove up to the house. Straightening, Carly walked to the door to the porch and stood there, watching as Amy parked. As she'd expected – not wanted, but expected – the former Rainey missus had brought her fiancé. The need for moral support was one Carly understood, but she simply didn't like this man. He used charm to cover the fact that he didn't really care what happened to Mort now that he was in a place where he could no longer hurt Amy. What he didn't realize was that perhaps his lover needed closure to what was a disturbing experience. Just because Milner had never loved Rainey, didn't mean that Amy hadn't. And that she didn't still have some need to see that her ex-husband had a better life than that of a vegetable.

* * *

"Is that all you need?" Amy was pale and drawn. Carly had been relentless, if gentle, in her questions and probing into what had happened here. She wanted to know how the house had looked on the outside, how it'd looked on the inside, and could Amy repeat _exactly_ what Mort had said. The house was a disaster, had it been like this while Mort lived here? Was she sure that Mort didn't know anyone named 'Shooter,' and why would he be obsessed with such a man? Most disturbingly, the doctor had asked for a reenactment of how Mort had chased her through the house.

"Yes, actually. You said that you thought that Mort had created this man 'Shooter,' but you thought he might have done it to punish himself, not to punish you. Do you know what he might have been punishing himself for? Was it for being a bad husband?"

"No . . . I don't think that." She looked nervously at Ted who was hovering nearby, listening intently.

Sensing what the problem was, Carly said, "We're almost done here, Mr. Milner. Why don't you wait outside and Amy will be right out."

It'd been the wrong thing to say. "Now see here. I don't care if you're a doctor or not, but you're upsetting Amy. You've made her do things that no one should have to do, all because you're trying to help a murderer –"

"Ted!"

Carly smiled icily. "That has yet to be proven, and for the moment I'm afraid you have to do as I ask. If you have a problem with it, you have your lawyers petition mine for you to be present while I discuss matters pertinent to my patient." Milner did not look happy. "But for the moment, you have no legal right to be here, and I must ask you to leave. If you and Mrs. Rainey were married, this would be another matter entirely, but you aren't. So please, let me do my job so I call allow you to comfort your fiancée, which is yours."

Ted shot a look at Amy, but when she made no indication that she'd like him to stay, he harrumphed and left. Carly turned her attention back to Amy, and waited for some sort of explanation.

"Mort . . . he was afraid I'd told Ted about this. I hadn't – there's no reason for him to know – but Mort was still paranoid. So I suppose I still feel that it's a secret I need to keep." Amy took a deep breath. "A few months after Mort got his second book published, a woman came forward with an accusation that he'd plagiarized a manuscript she'd tried to get published the year before. Mort was working part time as an editor for a publishing house, the same one she'd sent her manuscript to, and . . ." She shrugged. "Anyway, Mort denied having ever read her story, and the company tracked down the man who _had_ edited it. He'd gone back to school to be an engineer. The charges were dropped, but for a few weeks there, Mort was a different person. He was defensive, absentminded, obsessed. He wasn't eating, or sleeping. He became a chain smoker and developed a fascination with Jack Daniels. He was in bad shape. Almost – almost – like he was during the divorce, but not quite that bad."

"How long ago was this?"

"About seven years. It was the summer after that that I brought him up here to relax. He fell in love and bought the cabin."

"And what does that have to do with the events of last October?"

"Well, it was in the middle of that mess that he wrote 'Secret Window.'"

"And that's the story that this Shooter identity was claiming Mort had plagiarized." This at least was familiar from Carly's files.

"Right. But I think this all matters because at one point, Mort _did_ plagiarize a story. All through college he kept trying to submit a story to some literary magazine. They always sent his submissions back. Well, sometime after he graduated – and this was a few years before we met – he found some sort of ditto sheet of a story one of his classmates had written. The classmate was a good writer, better than Mort, and Mort decided he wanted to see if it was him or his writing that the staff at the magazine didn't like. So he sent in the story with no intention of going through with publishing it. He didn't think it would be accepted, and if it was, he'd say he'd changed his mind and take it all back. But the story was accepted, and he was so stunned that he forgot to tell them not to publish it. For months he was terrified that someone might recognize the story, tell the magazine, and then he'd be totally discredited as a writer."

"And no one found out," Carly guessed quietly, thinking over Amy's suggestion. Deep seated guilt could cause a man to break down, especially if he'd nearly done so when accused of plagiarism in the past. "But if that was the reason for Shooter, then why did he come after you?"

Amy shrugged. "I don't know. But it wasn't Mort who chased me through the house. I believe that. There was someone else in my husband's skull. You're a psychiatrist. Don't you know about split personalities?"

Carly laughed dryly. "I know enough to realize that the medical community has never come to any sort of consensus about the existence of any sort of condition that would merit one person having two totally separate and distinct personalities. There are doctors who say yes, and doctors who say no, and the really smart ones say that we don't know enough about the brain to make a definite decision on either side of the fence. Either way, I don't have enough information to even bring such a diagnoses to my bosses."

"What kind of proof do you need?" Now on top of pale and drawn, Amy looked concerned.

"The kind that I can only get from the horse's mouth. And our Mr. Ed isn't talking. Now, I'd like to get some clothes, and perhaps some books for Mort while I'm here, if you could point out his favorites for me."

* * *

Her conversation with Amy still rang in Carly's head as she rode up the elevator to the third floor on Monday morning. For a long time now, she'd suspected that something had been missed in Rainey's original psych evaluation, but for the life of her, she'd been unable to figure out what it was. She'd started to believe that she was just being paranoid, or perhaps just hoping that she'd be able to pin all his behavior on something that would keep him from a murder conviction.

_Of course, if he doesn't get better, he'll never make it to court. He'll just live here for the next fifty years or until he croaks._ They didn't have a lot of patients like that, but they had a few who were getting close to death's door. People who'd been convicted in the sixties and who hadn't been successful in getting appeals. Carly didn't want that to be Mort. She wanted to eventually see him into a half-way house, or on his own with a companion like Toby. That kind of life would be better for his state of mind than anything he could have while here. _And we're taking the first step today._

His room on the second floor was ready. The mess with the reimbursement for paint had never been satisfactorily settled, and she'd ended up paying for it out of her own pocket, but that was life. Amy had been helpful – more than helpful after the afternoon Carly had put her through – and had helped gather books, favorite CD's, and a wooden clock that Mort had made from a kit. She'd even gone so far as to order some reproductions of some pictures that Mort had loved but had been burned down along with the house in Derry.

His clothes Carly had taken home and washed. After six months of sitting in drawers, they'd been musty and most had still been laying on the floor where he'd dropped them. It'd taken an afternoon of extra washing, but Carly had gotten them done, along with some serious repair work on what Amy said was Mort's robe. It'd been so worn that both women had been convinced that it'd become a favorite article of clothing, so Carly had refrained from tossing it out along with Mort's socks and underwear. Amy had bought more of both, and they were now sitting in drawers in Mort's room, along with all his other clothes.

The only thing that the room was missing was Mort himself, and he'd become something of a dilemma. The orderlies on the second floor had heard about his early reputation – proving to Carly more than anything that first impressions were hard to shake – and had demanded that he come down on a gurney, heavily sedated and strapped down to boot. Carly had protested, arguing that he wasn't an animal, he wasn't going to rip anyone's throat out with his bare teeth, and that besides, he'd been the epitome of the word 'docile' for the past however many months.

After extensive arguing to first Marchman, and then to Adam, both camps had been forced to compromise. And if Carly wasn't particularly happy, at least she'd come out of bargaining better than the nurses who weren't speaking to her at the moment.

_They'll get over it once they get used to Rainey. He's too gentle for anyone to want to do anything but coddle him._ But for his first appearance he was going to appear with Carly and Toby, who were going to have four orderlies and two armed guards in tow. It was the guards that Carly objected to. Six people would be enough to subdue and sedate a single patient who'd only moved around enough to keep his muscles from completely atrophying. He could walk, but much more than that would tire him, even with adrenaline to help.

The moment she stepped out of the elevator and onto the third floor, chaos enveloped her. There were people asking her what to do, how to do, when to do, etc. There was her armed escort, seemingly arguing with the four – rather large and intimidating – orderlies they were supposed to be working in cooperation with. There was Ralph and Betty, who seemed to be refusing to do or say anything until Carly was there to give them their orders. And for some reason, there was a very out of place Mr. Lawley in the corner, observing the chaos with a smirk on his face.

Forcefully pushing her way through the mess of people, Carly made her way to the sign-in sheet, and wrote her name, noting the mass of names in front of hers. The dates next to the signatures indicated that each of these people had signed in that morning. _Oh no, they're not all coming in. If they want to see the worst Rainey can give, that'll be the way to get it._

Working her way along the gate, she reached Ralph and asked him to hit the security gate a few times with his nightstick to get everyone's attention. The ploy worked, and Carly straightened her shoulders, ready to straighten this mess in the same way.  
"I see you've all signed in, already," she started in a loud, clear voice. "Unfortunately, that was unnecessary for most of you. The only people going inside this ward will be myself, Mr. Carlson," she gestured to Ralph, "Nurse Ratchet, and Mr. McWade." There were loud protests to this, and Ralph had to use his nightstick again.

"I think you've all been here long enough to realize that a commotion of this size has the chance of upsetting even the most calm and composed patients, of which Mr. Rainey is not. I want this move to be beneficial, not traumatic." People started to grumble, but Carly raised her voice in said in a strict, no-nonsense tone, "Here are your assignments. If you feel that you cannot complete them in the matter I ask, you will be sent back to your regular duties, and I will find someone else to do your job. Is that understood?" There were nods.

"Alright. Any nurses here from the second floor, please report back to your positions. I believe that you were asked to help the orderlies there make sure that all patients are kept out of the corridors we'll be using to reach Mr. Rainey's room. I don't expect trouble, but I don't want to invite it by altering his environment that drastically. You're dismissed." A group of three women went to the elevator, pushing the down button. They were young, obviously here to see what the hullabaloo was about. Carly would cut them some slack this time.

"Next, while I am resigned to having an armed guard with us to ensure that no one is hurt, you will not be necessary until we reach the second floor. I must ask you to leave as well."

The two men who'd been assigned to her looked at each other, shrugged, and turned to leave. Carly pushed them out of her mind, and turned her attention to the small group left in front of her. One was Toby, who'd apparently shown up late, four were her orderlies, and one was Lawley.

_Deal with the easiest first,_ she reminded herself. "Toby, go ahead and go to Rainey's room. Start reminding him that we're going to move him, but be gentle."

Toby rolled his eyes as if her reminder to be gentle was tantamount to reminding him that the sky was blue. He then saluted, and left with Betty to go sit with Mort.

"You four," Carly started next, waving at the orderlies. "I'd like you be waiting in the elevator when we come out with Mort. If he thinks you're part of the scenery, I don't think he'll get agitated. He's started to notice other people, and I don't want to throw too many at him at once." The men nodded, and went to stand by the elevators doors, joking softly amongst themselves.

The doctor turned to her last irritant and immediately took up a stance that would let him know she saw him as one. "And just what are you doing here, Mr. Lawley?"

"Please, call me Mick."

"Oh no," she said, raising her chin a little. "That would indicate some sort of familiarity between us, or god forbid, friendship." She crossed her arms over her chest. "If you're here for your interview, I suggest you just leave now. Rainey isn't going to be in any state –"

It was Lawley's turn to interrupt. "While I admire your passion and devotion to your patients, doctor, I think that perhaps you're getting just a little bit carried away." Carly blinked, certain that he was the first to accuse her of getting carried away. "I'm not here to interrogate your patient. I'm just here to observe how he reacts and interacts to and with people. That's all. I'll go wherever you'd like to place me, but I would like to see just what his temperament is, especially when he's upset."

He was being more obliging than Carly could have expected, but just the sight of him – from perfect blond hair and green-blue eyes to polished wingtips – irritated her. Coldly she said, "Then you may wait on the second floor along with the guards. You'll get to see Rainey as he comes down the hall. Now if you'll excuse me, I need to see to my patient."

Tess had to tell herself that she was _not _retreating as she hurried down the halls to Mort's room. That was ridiculous. That _man_ did not do anything more than annoy her, and she was used to dealing with annoyances. If she just stayed indifferent towards him for a little bit longer, he'd get the same picture everyone else had, and he'd leave her alone. And in the meantime, she'd focus on her work, because her work was what was important.

Ralph opened the door for her, and Carly stepped in, immediately relaxing at the sight of Toby and Mort sitting at the table. Toby was talking about some kind of unfortunate camping trip he'd taking following his graduation. It was full of nasty weather (acts of God), forgotten supplies, and getting lost in the middle of nowhere without any gas for his Jeep. She was used enough to Toby's stories by now to realize that he was exaggerating a little, but was most likely doing so for Mort's benefit. To help him see that taking the elevator to the floor below couldn't possibly be all that bad.

Carly let the story come to a conclusion before she stepped forward and stole Mort's attention. "Hello Mort, how are you today?" He looked at her suspiciously. "Did Toby remind you that we're going to take a little trip?" He looked down at his piece of paper as one shoulder raised a fraction of an inch. "Don't worry," Carly soothed, coming over to the table and taking a seat. "It'll be a short one, and I promise that no one else will talk to you, and I won't make _you_ talk to anyone. It's just going to be you, and me, and Toby." She glanced up at her co-conspirator.

"Easy trip man," Toby agreed. "Done it a thousand times. No rapids to shoot, no bears, and no chance of getting struck by lightning. It'll be easier than a walk in the park."

"We need to get you into a new room, Mort." She could see that he was thinking about all this. "Remember I told you about your room? It's much nicer than this one. I even brought some of your books. Would you like to read again?" Mort looked down at the table, pulling some paper and a few crayons to him. He didn't try to communicate; Carly thought that the movement had more to do with claiming territory than anything else. "There's paper in the room I made for you, Mort. And crayons. And if you're good, I'll see what I can do about getting you some pens. Or pencils if that's what you prefer."

The lure of new writing utensils was what made Mort give her a side-long glance. She smiled. "Are you ready to go?" He looked at Toby, who winked, then at his own hands; he seemed worried.

"It'll be okay, Mort. I promise. We'll take it slow."

Mort finally nodded and stood after another ten minutes of thinking. Carly smiled, hiding as much of her excitement as she could. A bottle of champaign was a good companion of excitement, not a wary and shy man.

Carly walked to the door and waited for her boys – as she was coming to think of them – to join her. Mort was hesitant and a little unsteady on his feet, but Toby kept pace with him, keeping up a steady stream of calming and meaningless chatter. With both men at her side, she knocked on the door and waited for Ralph to open it. He had his own orders to move slowly, so as to not alarm Mort. The security guard at least was familiar to him, but moving outside the room on a jaunt that would not end in the showers was new.

By the time they'd reached the security check-point though, Carly was relieved to find that she'd been worrying for no reason. Mort walked with her and Toby, his eyes focused on his feet. She thought he might be listening to the still talking Toby, but she wasn't sure. Now and then, Mort had hesitated, but it'd only been for a few seconds, and he'd never made any indication that he wanted to go back to his room. For the moment he was trusting them, and that was more an indication of progress than anything else Carly had seen in weeks.

Toby broke away from them to go push the button for the elevator. Carly wanted as little standing still time as possible, on the theory that action in this case, precluded thought; Mort would have to focus on one or the other in what was a new situation to him. She hadn't anticipated the effect that having one of his escort leave would have on Mort, though. The moment Toby moved ahead, he looked up, a brief flash of concern flashing over his face.

"It's alright, Mort," Carly soothed, brushing her fingers against the sleeve of his regulation hospital pajamas. He didn't respond, but his jaw tightened and he picked up the pace a little. It was more than obvious that the breaking up of his core group taxed his peace. When they reached the elevator, Mort relaxed a little, but he also seemed more alert than he had before, and his mouth pulled down into a little frown.

"See, I told you this would be a breeze," Toby tried to reassure their patient. "Pretty soon we'll have you doing the hundred-yard dash." Carly just rolled her eyes and shook her head, and prodded both men forward as the doors slid open.

* * *

Mort had been installed in his new room for almost an hour, but Carly was reluctant to leave. After their lengthy trip through the corridors of the check-in ward, Mort had been visibly agitated; he'd gotten a bad case of shakes, and he kept wringing his hands. Her only comfort was that this behavior had proved in front of some of the most skeptical witnesses – the guards and Lawley – that even under stress, Mort displayed no violent behavior. That was a triumph all in itself, and moreover, it was _Mort's_ triumph, even if he didn't realize it.

_But he does seem to have a surplus of adrenaline_, she thought as she watched her patient prowl back and forth across the room. She didn't think he'd actually seen any of it yet; he was just getting accustomed to moving around in a larger space. Or perhaps looking for corners. Another one of Carly's orders had been for the furniture to be moved around until all the corners in the room were taken. It was time for him to stop retreating every time something upset him, and it was less traumatic to appear in a room that didn't have any, than to get used to having them and then to have them be taken away.

She didn't attempt conversation. That was Toby's province, and he was getting some lunch. For the next three days, Mort wouldn't be left alone. Both she and Toby had decided it would take that long for Mort to start to grow comfortable in his new surroundings. Toby would be taking late afternoons, nights, and early mornings, while Carly stayed the rest of the time. And now was the best time to start. She had her own things with her so she could start writing reports and start a final batch of paperwork, and Mort . . . Mort had a lot of things to get used to.

_And he might be encouraged to if I stop watching him like a hawk and resume my normal activities while I'm around him._ Stabilization was what everyone was hoping her and Toby's presence would provide, but they had to act normal in order to provide that. _Reports then._

Carly took a seat at the small table the room had – nothing more than a two foot square surface with two chairs, the kind found in most hotel rooms – and pulled out her laptop. Within minutes she was typing away while watching Mort out of the corner of one eye.

After ten minutes, he started to notice her – or her typing – and started throwing glances at her as he paced. After twenty, he was coming to rest on the chair across from her occasionally, before pacing some more. Twenty-five – he would sit and look at the laptop before turning his head to examine the room. Really examine it. Thirty – he was staring at her laptop intently. "No, Mort," she murmured. "You destroyed the last thing I gave you to type with. We'll have to see how you behave with a pen before trying that again." She gave him a pen, and he tucked it into the pocket of his pajamas.

It was an hour later before he was actually looking at the bookshelves and drawers as if he wanted to explore. Carly was ready for a break, so she put her screen down and murmured, "Go ahead, Mort. Everything here is yours. You can touch it." He examined her, refusing to make eye contact, then got up and walked to the closet. He opened the door enough to peer inside, then closed it. Next he ruffled through his drawers, pulling out a pair of clean socks before moving on to the bookcase. There, he ran his fingers along the spines of several books, before choosing one. His head turned as he looked for somewhere to go with his treasures, but there were no corners. The look he sent Carly was nearly pitiful.

"You can sit on the bed, Mort. It's yours."

Hesitantly, he walked across the room – the bed was on the opposite wall from the table – and stood in front of the bed. Something caught his eye and he turned his head. He froze. Carly looked to where he was staring so intently, and saw that some helpful nurse had hung his robe on the hook on the back of the door.

"Yes, Mort. That's your robe. I fixed it." He walked across the room and touched it, studying ratty edges and fraying hems before deciding that it _was_ his. With a shaking hand, he took it off the hook and carried it back to the bed along with the book and the socks. Taking a cross-legged seat and leaning against the wall, he held his belongs and stared at some point above Carly's head.

She liked to think that it was his way of thanking her.

* * *

**Author Thanks: **many thanks to **Merrie** (I must admit that your cliffnotes reviews make me laugh. Cover everything in 30 seconds. And I gave you this 'more' you're always asking for.); **Dawnie****-7** (Very bad things? Would I do that? Maybe it'll lead to very good things. I'm very glad you approve of Toby. I like him.); **HumiliatedGrape** (You can never say "I love this fic" too many times. That's my opinion at least. Thanks for catching those small goofs. That's what happens when you write just too darn fast.); **pandagal** (Michael? Jealous? Where do you guys get this? Perhaps he's totally harmless. Or not. I'm not telling yet. I hope the length of this makes up for the length…wait. Never mind. I updated on the 19th. That wasn't too long ago. is proud); **CleopatraVII** (Small details are what keep people awake in the middle of the night, so they must be important. I like to use them – makes things seem just a little more real. And Mort…I'm slowly working on him. It's fun. And my lips are sealed about Michael.); **normal** **human** **being** (I only sign in if I'm posting something. Don't feel bad about missing chapters or not reviewing. It's summer. Schedules are off. Things happen. But at least it did give you two consecutive chapters to read. Less cliffhangers that way. Forget well-rounded, around the knees is just fine.); **Amy** (There's no such thing as enjoying a story too much. It's just not possible. As for Michael being mentally stable…well, Carly works in a mental hospital. There's a lot of that going around. I hope you approved of Amy, and the very small amount of Ted. Hope the cabin visit was all you expected. Lawley? Perhaps. Poor Carly needs _someone_ to twitch her tail now and again. I certainly hope you survived to read this. ); **Spoofmaster** (I hope you got to see this new chapter two. God bless all bookmarks.); **Nithke** (Good suggestions for moving Mort, btw. Decided to kind of go middle of the road, although I was tempted to let him freak out. Carly told me that wouldn't be allowed though, because too many people would be watching, and I'd set his progress back. I had no choice but to listen. Whoa – scary chicken you've got there, and YAY! more French!); **Esmeralda** **Sparrow** (I certainly hope this chapter was up to expectations.); **A Cheerful Reader** (You're absolutely right about the State-funded paint job. You'll notice I took a cue from you and made poor Carly pay for it herself. I hate the fact that doctors have become druggists, so I definitely wanted a heroine who would go against that. And yes, I should be good at bluffing. I did it all through high school.); **Sparrow** **Lover** (I hope this chapter didn't disappoint either, but I get the feeling I know what your answer will be. ); **Rebel** **Lady** (I'm glad you like Toby. He's one of my favorites, and a joy to write. And you just _think_ you're going to get answers. Don't worry about catching on to the window thing. Sometimes I think I may be a little too obtuse. Mort did know about paperwork – she did some in his room. Why did Michael get sent to Briar Ridge? Umm…I'll have to look that up. I'm glad you like this side of Mort. The lack of a realistically damaged Mort in this fandom is one of the reasons I decided to write a fic. More variety was needed.); **CaptainJackSparrowsGirl** (lol! Someone did a hit and run review, and made me laugh in the process. Hope this was worth the wait.) 


	11. Chapter Ten

**Author's Note: Well, I got this out pretty quick I think, even if I took the time to write more than one chapter of my OUATIM fic. With any luck, the next chapter will be just as fast in coming.**

**Author's thanks at end.**

* * *

Mort was progressing nicely in Carly's opinion. He's been installed in his new room for nearly three weeks now, and in that time, he'd progressed from ignoring everyone in favor of staring at a blank piece of paper, to ignoring everyone in favor of reading. Anti-social behavior wasn't uncommon for someone in his position, so Carly let it slide, pulling Toby out of his overnight duties and cutting back her own hours until she spent two hours a day with him. Now and then she and Toby would stay to eat dinner with him, maintaining light conversation between themselves about current events so Mort would have some knowledge about what was going on in the outside world. Newspapers would have rendered the same results, but Mort refused to touch anything that didn't have a binding.

He also refused to eat anything but peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, corn chips, and soda. He refused to wear shoes. While he kept himself impeccably clean, he left his clothes lying around until they were nothing but masses of wrinkles, and ran his hands through his hair so many times that it practically stood on end. And he still wasn't talking.

Carly just let these idiosyncrasies slide though. Everyone, as a friend of hers in college had been fond of saying, had autistic tendencies. Some people just had more than others. And this was particularly true of people as obviously traumatized as Rainey.

There was one area she pushed him in however, and that was the matter of his windows. Whether he liked it or not, she was going to make him acclimated to seeing the outside world. It was the middle of May with June fast approaching, and she wanted nothing more than to be able to take him outside one of these days. Or at least be able to watch him look outside. It was true that this place was a refuge for those who needed it, but in her mind, it had never been meant as a jail. Seeking sanctuary was one thing, but ignoring the entire world was unacceptable as well as unhealthy. As his doctor, she couldn't allow this to go on indefinitely. But for today, letting him sleep alone was enough progress. The windows could wait until next week.

Since it was a Friday afternoon, she spent several hours in the staff room trying to finish up reports that she didn't want to take home with her. With her brother getting married, had somehow gotten roped into being a bridesmaid. Why anyone wanted her in the wedding party, she couldn't tell, but the small bit of her sense of familial duty that hadn't been totally and completely destroyed by alcohol and time insisted she _not_ turn her brother and his fiancée down. Which meant that no matter what, she had to be free tomorrow to go to a fitting for her dress.

_It's not that I don't love my family,_ she thought as she stared blankly at the blinking cursor. _It's just that I love them more when they're not around to tempt me to argue with them._ A sigh escaped her at the same time she reached up to rub her eyes. _At least Mother won't be there to loudly proclaim just how many pounds she thinks I could stand to lose before the wedding._ Of course, to be fair to her mother, she hadn't seen Carly since Christmas two years and thirty pounds ago.

"Hey, doc."

The interruption from Toby was welcome. "What are you still doing here, Toby? It's a Friday night, and you don't have to spend it working. I thought you had a hot date."

"I do, but not until 8:30. She wanted time to get cleaned up after her shift at the nursing home."

"Nursing home?" Carly just raised an eyebrow. Toby laughed.

"She's finishing her last few weeks of internship, and she thinks old people are cute. I think she's cute. Anyway, I wanted to see if you'd do something for me."

"No. If its more paperwork just so you can go see your chickadee, the answer is no." Carly pretended to glare ferociously.

"Well, its not really paperwork, per se –"

"Then what is it, and why do I have to do it?"

"Progress report." Toby handed several papers over. "I've filled out most of it, gotten the signatures I need from Dr. Holshack and the nurse that's been overseeing me. I just need to get some comments and a signature from you since you're the doctor I've been working with the most."

"Fine." She took the papers and glanced through them. "Do you need this today, or will Monday be alright?" There was only an hour left in her workday, and she'd be damned before she stayed after to finish paperwork. That kind of stuff did not earn overtime.

"No, Monday will be fine. I just have to get it in before the last Monday of the month."

"Alright." Carly put the papers in her clipboard under a psych evaluation she'd started on a patient she was about ready to turn loose on the world. Or at least on the family he'd been driving crazy with excessive OCD. "Have a good weekend then."

"You too, doc." He was out the door before he could hear Carly's small snort of amusement. Her weekend was going to be anything but fun.

* * *

It was nearly seven before Carly escaped to the parking lot and her car. The longer she'd stayed to finish her work, the more people had come into the staff room to interrupt her. The worst interruption by far had been when Steve had come in with the last person she'd wanted to see. Mick Lawley.

She knew it was unreasonable to feel as if the man was stalking her – especially since she hadn't seen hide nor hair of him since Rainey's move – but his presence irritated her. He was just too confident and too good-looking for her well-being. The irritating devil's advocate in the back of her head asked if she wasn't simply irritated because the man reminded her of her ex-husband. To be truthful, Carly had to say yes. Dan had always made her feel as if he were morally and intellectually superior to her as well. Her psychologist – yes, she knew the irony of that – had said it was her own insecurities that had driven her to drink and caused her to think that she was lacking in some way. That may have been true nine years ago when she'd been a fresh divorcee, but hadn't she matured since then?

No, it was just Lawley that she didn't like. It was as simple as that.

As her first approach for avoiding unwanted conversation was ignoring the rest of the world, Carly pushed her glasses up on her nose and stared at her laptop, busily typing away. The men stayed on the other side of the room, not sparing her a glance as they talked intently in low voices. She could only guess what the topic was.

"Dr. Beckham knows more about that than I would . . ."

"Getting bitter, Steve-o?" she muttered, focusing even more of her attention on the screen in front of her. Any sort of conversation about her controversial patient would guarantee that she'd leave later than she wanted to, and not only that, give her enough frustration that she'd have to hit the gym to work it off. That was not at all in keeping with her idea of a work-free, stress-free, conflict-free evening. However, her comment was ill-advised if a confrontation was what she truly wanted to avoid.

"For your information, Beckham, I was managing Rainey just fine – "

"You had him so doped up on meds that he wouldn't have known if there had been an earthquake and the ceiling fell in on him." _So much for ignoring them._ "You were medicating, not doctoring, and you know it." Her voice was matter of fact and emotionless. This was something they'd been over dozens of times before with other patients, so she didn't care to expend the energy this time.

"With criminally insane patients, the standard procedure is to –"

"I know what the procedure is, Steve. I know that it is _not_ to let patients while away three months in a haze while –"

"Rainey was lucid. That's all that's required."

"Rainey didn't know if he was a man or a turnip." This acerbic comment made Lawley snort for some reason, as if he were trying to hide laughter.

"You're in no position to judge, Beckham. You've never treated anyone interred on the third floor."

"And that makes me incompetent?" She didn't like the way Lawley's eyes grew interested at Steve's mention of her lack of experience with people in Mort's legal standing. "I've treated people with symptoms extremely similar to Rainey's more times than I can count in the past eight years, Steve. I'm tenured, just as you are, even if I do think you missed something on Rainey's initial diagno–"

"Nonsense. Marchman himself agreed with me." Steve's face was turning red with anger.

"Marchman never observed Rainey for any amount of time. He has more important things to do, apparently."

"Oh, so not even he can do things well enough to please you?"

_Ok, that was personal._ " Dr. Marchman," she said in an icy tone, "is a generation removed from us. The things he learned to earn his doctorate are at times drastically different than what we were taught. And while he's kept up with all the new discoveries and advances, he's still stuck firmly in that old school way of thinking."

"You make it sound as if he's still yearning to perform lobotomies, Beckham."

"I make it sound like the truth. Just because you don't like it, that doesn't mean its going to go away. And yes, that still means I think you missed something."

"Well, why don't you enlighten us, _doctor_?"

_Ohh. . ._ The smug look on Steve's face and the way he crossed his arms over his chest made her suddenly furious. So what if she had been a woman in a man's profession eight years ago? The world was changing, and chauvinist pigs like him were going to have to get used to that. "Psychotic depression bordering on schizophrenia with a dash of post-traumatic stress disorder thrown in for seasoning." She threw Steve's own words back at him, reading from Rainey's folder. Lawley was forgotten. "Psychotic depression is characterized by anxiety, agitation, hypochondria, insomnia, physical immobility, constipation, and cognitive impairment. PTSD by flashbacks of the traumatic event, a loss of emotional and relational ties, a heightened state of awareness, and panic attacks. Schizophrenia is manifested in hallucinations, delusions, and disordered speech/thoughts, etc. In none of your own diagnoses is there any mention of violence. _Nowhere_. In fact, I don't think Rainey is even capable of committing violence against anyone. He got a paper cut once and he _fainted._ Is that the reaction of a hardened criminal?"

"What are you suggesting, Dr. Beckham?" This question came from Lawley since Steve seemed to be speechless in anger.

"I'm suggesting that no one go around speculating what my patient _may_ have done until he can at least converse like a normal person." To her great surprise, Lawley looked as if he were actually listening to her. Steve had recovered during her small speech however, and he looked like he was out for blood.

"Has it ever occurred to you that Rainey killed those men just because he's a heartless beast?" Carly slowly turned her head towards her colleague. His suggestion was so . . . unexpected . . . that she felt really and truly livid. It'd been a long time since anyone had gotten under her skin enough to make her feel that way. "Because that's what the jury is going to see as soon as your man goes to trial, big pitiful eyes or not. And he's going to fry," Steve continued coolly as he walked to the table and leaned into her face. "Which means, oh educated one, that you will have failed miserably. How does that feel?"

Her answer was to swing out with her right fist and catch him painfully in the sternum. Steve gasped in pain and backed off as she got up from her chair ready to try that again. Before she could swing, however, Lawley caught her from behind and held her back. Unable to reach Steve and unwilling to humiliate herself by struggling uselessly against the ADA, Carly merely hissed, "You're a sham, Steve. You don't care about people. All you care about is the position and the dubious glory of getting to spout your 'professional' opinion at gullible juries. You could cure a case of depression if it came up and bit you in the a– "

"I think that's enough, Dr. Beckham," Lawley cut her off. "I believe Dr. Wright is bright enough not to press the matter. Or assault charges." He must have done something because Steve abruptly turned on his heel and left the room, brushing past a figure all three of them had overlooked until now. "Can I help you?" Lawley asked the dark-haired man, only letting Carly go once the door had closed behind Steve.

_As if I were going to go after him,_ she thought disdainfully, straightening the shoulders of her blouse. Ignoring the lawyer, she turned her attention to the man she'd identified as soon as she'd seen. "Hello, Michael. Can I help you?"

"Are . . . are you alright, Dr. Beckham?"

"Yes, thank you for asking." Despite her lingering anger, Carly pulled on her professional mask. "Have you missed your bus again?"

"Yes . . . yes, doctor. I . . . I was working in the potting shed. I . . . I didn't see the time."

"Alright. Why don't you go out to the lobby and I'll call you a cab, okay?"

"Thank . . . thank you, Dr. Beckham. Will . . . will you call the house?"

"Yes. Now go on." Michael did as he was told, and Carly was left along with Lawley. "I hope you're pleased with yourself," she muttered, going to her computer and pushing send. Her report would print in the office and would eventually make its way to Dr. Holshack's desk. As for the other few things she'd wanted to get done before leaving, they could wait until next week. All she wanted to do now was go to the gym and smash a racquetball around for an hour or so.

"Pleased? Pleased with what? My inside scoop on office politics?" Carly just rolled her eyes as she packed her things. "Why do I get the feeling, Dr. Beckham, that you're determined to think the worst of me?"

"Because if I do, I won't be disappointed."

"Look, I'm just doing my job, same as you."

"No. Not same as me." Packed, she slung her bag over her shoulder and turned to look down her nose at the man standing across the room from her. "I'm in the business of helping people, not locking them up and throwing away the key. Or seeing that they do get fried."

"That's not fair. First of all, Maine doesn't _have_ a death penalty, and second, I help bring closure to the families of victims of violent crime. I'd say that's helping people."

"The good of the many instead of the few. If the State spent more time focusing on individuals rather than injured parties, perhaps you wouldn't have to try so many cases where violent crime is involved."

"Ah, but then I'd be out of a job." He grinned.

_Is he flirting?!_ The idea was unfathomable, so she shoved it out of her mind. "You could always become a divorce lawyer. Then you'd never run out of work. Good-night, Mr. Lawley."

"You're going home?" he asked as he followed her from the room.

"I don't see that it's any of your business."

"I'm just trying to be friendly." He caught up with her and walked at her side. Carly couldn't speed up without making it appear that he was disturbing her.

"I don't want to be friends with you." _When is he going to take the hint?_

"Alright, then how about I'm trying to bum a ride off you?"

"Alright, then I'll call you a cab as well."

"How about coffee. There's a place a few blocks from here called –"

"No thank you." She had to admit he was persistent. "Aren't you supposed to be working? And wouldn't this be considered trying to influence a witness?"

"I'm not on the clock, and you're determined not to be influences, so it's alright. How about a beer if you don't want coffee?"

"I don't drink."

"How about –"

"No. Stop asking." Carly poked her head into the office, asked one of the night staff to call a cab for Michael, then went out the main doors.

"Why –"

"Now you're stalking me. Please take 'no' as a serious answer, and leave me alone."

"Fine. Just one piece of business first –"

"I thought you weren't working."

"Well, I won't be if you don't stop interrupting me." Carly rolled her eyes and got her keys out of her purse. Lawley apparently took this as some form of consent. "I just wanted to let you know that your boss is keeping my office updated on Rainey's progress. So when he's ready to talk, I'll be around."

"Thanks for the warning," Carly drawled. "Now, I really must get home and feed my cat."

"Your cat? No husband? Or kids?"

"I'm divorced, if you really need to know. Now –"

"That has nothing to do with kids."

"That is none of your business. Good-night." Carly got into her car and reached for the door. She wasn't actually quick enough to close it before Lawley did for her. Once more rolling her eyes, she threw her stuff into the seat next to her, and started the engine. Lawley backed up as she backed out, and she refused to spare him another glance as she sped out of the parking lot.

* * *

Unfortunately for Steve, Carly was right about his ability to quickly get a handle on cases. That was why he had been called to the institute late Sunday night. One of his patients who was suffering from insomnia due to their anxiety over some nightterrors, had fallen asleep and promptly thought they were being attacked by chainsaw-wielding manic zombies and had attacked an orderly with a hanger. The poor teen had been so disturbed that the night nurse had called Steve to come console the girl.

He hadn't been pleased. Night terrors were some of the worse cases to treat from a psychological point of view. Medication was easy once the right one was found, but since the patient could never remember anything more than the generalities of what had scared them to death, there wasn't much actual counseling that could be done. And on top of that, the patient was a thirteen-year-old girl who was prone to hysteria, especially after midnight. So when Steve finally got to leave the clinic at three to grab another two hours of sleep before his workday, he was not a happy camper. Too bad for him, his day was about to get much worse.

There were guards who patrolled the grounds of Briar Ridge, but they were predictable and relied on their cameras inside the building. If they didn't see anything wrong inside, then they only strolled around the building two or three times a night, and when Steve was leaving, they had just returned from one such jaunt. The night was cold, and Steve pulled a pair of earmuffs up, cursing the sudden drop in what had been pleasantly spring-like temperatures. Between the earmuffs and his own curses, he never heard the rustling in the bushes that indicated that someone was coming up behind him.

His struggle was brief. Instead of spending part of his monthly paycheck on gym dues, he'd always opted for using the money to take sweet young things with no real ambition out for expensive dinners. His assailant on the other hand – while shorter than his victim – was used to physical labor, and had surprise on his side. In the scuffle, Steve was knocked unconscious. His body was dragged across the front lawn and through the gardens behind the clinic.

Steve didn't have to worry about getting enough sleep for his rotation the next morning.

* * *

_What the hell?_ Slowing her car to stop, Carly rolled down her window and felt a sense of unease overcome her as the uniformed cop came up to her.

"I'm sorry, ma'am, but you're going to have to turn around. Only hospital employees are being allowed on the grounds at this time."

"I _am_ an employee," Carly said shortly, wondering if the tags in her windshield were invisible. It was then she remembered that she still hadn't gotten around to adding this year's to the set. That was probably the reason for the skeptical look she was getting now. Luckily for him, he didn't dismiss her out of hand.

"Name, ma'am?"

"_Dr_. Carly Beckham." _This guy is going to let me through or I'm was going to do something drastic._ She crushed that thought, knowing it was only a display of her irritation from a weekend of forcing herself to involve herself in mindless chatter.

"I'm going to need to see some current state ID, ma'am." Grumbling, Carly dug through her purse and found a pay-stub. Her ID was in her locker, but at least this proved that the same people signed both their checks.

Her evidence earned her a raised eyebrow, but at least the officer let her through. When she asked what was going on, he simply shook his head and walked on to the car behind her. _Pig,_ she savagely thought as she parked her car and gathered her things.

At the front door there was a legion of blue-coated officers searching a small area of grass just to the right of the walkway. She was once again stopped and asked for ID. If one of the orderlies hadn't been watching from the glass doors to vouch for her, Carly didn't think she would have made it in.

"What the hell is going on?" Carly asked when she found Leo in the break room. She was sitting there with Todd, both of them with untouched cups of coffee in front of them. "Why are the police searching the front lawn with a fine-toothed comb?" Carly repeated when no one seemed inclined to answer her first question.

"Someone attacked Dr. Wright last night," Leo finally answered. "He's dead."

"What?" Carly sat down hard in a chair, shaking her head when Leo tried to offer her coffee too. "How?"

Leo shot a look at Todd, who simply shook his head. "Someone tried to open up his head with a garden claw," she answered when the old man declined to. "Right to the face. Todd was the one who found him."

Too stunned to saw anything, Carly reached over and rested a hand on Todd's arm, unable to imagine how he felt. That garden was his pride and joy. A place of life, he was fond of saying. Everything was laid out so that no plants were competing for sun, or shade, or water. Weeds were ruthlessly pulled before they could choke the life out of anything else. It was a place of peace. Todd had been known to ban people who even so much as had an argument in his botanical kingdom. In fact, it'd been Carly and Steve who'd been the last ones banned in the fall of the previous year for arguing over a patient's care. _He must be devastated,_ she thought as Todd just slowly shook his head.

"Do we know anything?"

"No. Just that whoever did it knew when the guards came by, and that they used gardening gloves. The police aren't even sure if Dr. Wright was an intentional victim or just convenient."

It was rude to speak ill of the dead, but Carly couldn't help saying, "Steve was never convenient in his entire life."

"Carly –"

"I know," she said, chagrined. "That was inappropriate. Do they suspect anyone here at the hospital?" When Leo just looked at her out of sad eyes, Carly grew alarmed. "What? What aren't you telling me?" Just then the doors to the break room flew open and Toby stood panting in the doorway. There was no need to ask her question again. "Oh god. Mort."

There were no time for good-byes as Carly jumped up from the table and ran out the door, Toby passing off her coat and ID. When this was all settled, she would have to quiz him about how he knew her locker combination, but right now there was no time. The duo raced towards the elevator, yelling for the nurse inside to hold the doors. They used the short ride to catch their breath, and when they stepped out onto the second floor, Carly's sense of urgency had turned into icy professionalism. These men were going to be very sorry for intruding on _her_ patient.

"Doc, we have to –"

Carly shot her young protégé a quelling look, and continued her deliberate pace. These men were going to fear her, by god, and that wouldn't be achieved by rushing in as a mass of hair and righteous anger.

"Excuse me, ma'am, you can't go any further."

Carly stopped and looked at the officer, letting her eyes show him that she was clearly unimpressed with what she saw. "If I were down at your precinct, I would most likely listen to that order," she said crisply, "but I'm not. _You_ are in _my_ precinct, as it were, and I outrank you." Without another word, she passed the man. As he followed, she swore it was for the mere purpose of being annoying.

"Ma'am!"

"That's doctor," she corrected, rounding on him. "And as such, any business I have here is more important than yours. Unless you are declaring a state of marshal law in what is basically a mental ward, and unless you know more about my job than I do, I suggest you do not try to stop me."

"But –"

"But nothing." She straightened her shoulders and looked down her nose at him. "I suggest you get on with your job and allow me to do the same. Good-morning, officer." Grabbing Toby's sleeve, she towed him after her.

"You're going to have to teach me how to do that someday," he muttered under his breath as he noticed the that the guard had gone back to his corner.

"It's easy. Just convince everyone that you're heartless." They turned another corner and Carly had to force herself not to stop at the sight of hospital guards and orderlies arguing with uniformed policemen. "Good god, they're turning this into a circus," she muttered, stalking forward.

One of the hospital staff noticed her. "Dr. Beckham! They're –"

"They're only half the problem," she said in a voice quiet enough that everyone had to stop to listen to her. "I want everyone here – including officers – who has other duties to disperse immediately. This is a hospital, not a circus. I will not stand here as you upset this entire wing. Now get." Half the hospital people and a few officers left, albeit the police didn't look happy at listening to her. She didn't give a damn. "How many of you were actually told to stand here and waste time?" Two officers raised their hands. "Alright. I want four orderlies to stand here as well, just in case I need you. Everyone else, whether you were told to be here or not, may leave."

"Ma'am –"

"I am no a ma'am. I'm a doctor. A doctor who would very much like to know what business you have here disturbing patients." She rounded on the hapless sergeant. "If you would like to complain about my dictatorial behavior, you may go downstairs to the main office and use the phones."

"My captain –"

"Your captain may call my boss and complain. Here," she handed over one of her business cards, "now you have a name. Don't make me ask you to leave again." Dodging this second to last hurdle, Carly walked up to Rainey's door and was stopped by the two officers standing there.

"I'm sorry, doctor, but we can't allow you to interrupt an interrogation."

"If there is an interrogation going on in there, I'm pressing charges against all of you for unduly harassing my patient. You'd best hope that there is no 'interrogation' happening." The orderlies she'd asked to stay leaned forward, an obvious sign that she had much more support than they did. "You're going to let me in now, and you're going to stay outside. Furthermore, if I require the assistance of these orderlies, you will let them in without fuss, and not involve yourself with anything that is happening in that room. Understood?"

"Yes, doctor."

Not caring which man had answered, Carly pushed her way into the room and once again froze.

* * *

Why were these men here asking questions? Mort didn't like it. They were loud. Demanding. He didn't know the answers to anything they were asking.

_They shouldn't be here._ He knew the faces of the people who worked here. His writer's eye had seen a common gentleness in the eyes of the people who worked in this place where he was. These men didn't have it. _They shouldn't be here._

Agitated, he paced around the room like a caged lion. _So loud._ Their words filled the room and left him with no escape. When he tried to write 'Go away' on a paper, they took it from him. They wouldn't let him rest. _Their words . . . their words . . ._ They caged him in, restricting him. They were so ugly. Ugly words with ugly meanings. They accused, and pointed fingers, and the questions.

_Don't know. Don't know. Don't know, don't know, don't know don't know don't know. Don'tknowdon'tdon'tknowdon'tknow. . ._

Mort clasped his hands over his ears and huddled on his bed. Still they didn't stop. He could feel the panic and an ugly feeling building up to match their ugly words. _No!_ Not that feeling. He didn't like it. Where was the woman-who-wasn't-Amy? People were scared of her. He'd seen it. _Make them go away. Away!_ The men closed in and Mort could feel his panic building.

Not again. He didn't want to forget again.

* * *

"Do you enjoy stealing candy from babies as well?" Carly asked. Her appearance had apparently gone unnoticed, because the two detectives twirled around.

"Who're you?" the man on the right demanded, taking in her coat and ID.

"I'm the woman who's going to bust your asses. Do you have any idea how many laws you're breaking right now?"

"You're interfering in an investigation –"

How many people was she going to have to interrupt today? "Unless you have physical evidence that places my patient at the crime scene without a shadow of a doubt, you're harassing a man who doesn't possess the psychological skills to even understand what you're asking him. Not only that, but what you're doing wouldn't be tolerated by anyone who was in any condition to stand up for their civil rights, you're possibly undoing months of intense work, and pissing me off."

"Look lady, if he wanted to look after his civil rights, he should have asked for a lawyer."

"Mr. Rainey hasn't spoken since December." From the corner of her eye, she saw papers scattered across the floor by the table. One or two of them had scribbles on them. _Mort tried to communicate with them._

" – common sense to question a man suspect in several –"

"You bastards," she hissed. "Leave now or I won't be held responsible for what happens next."

"Threatening a officer is a federal offense, doctor. I suggest –"

"_I_ suggest that you listen to the lady. She's got a mean right hook." This time the interruption didn't come from Carly, but from Lawley who was looking rumpled enough to have simply rolled out of bed and come straight to the hospital. "Moreover, Dr. Beckham is correct about the laws you're violating. Tell your captain that I'll be by to speak to her later this afternoon."

"Beckham?" The way the detective's eyes lit up disturbed Carly immensely. "According to witnesses, there was a lot of bad blood –"

"Enough!" Startled, Carly looked at Lawley. He looked upset for the first time since she'd met him. "I'll ensure that Dr. Beckham drops by for a talk as well. Now vamoose and let the lady do her job."

The men grudgingly left. Lawley went with them, and part of Carly was tempted to follow to see if he was going to chew them out, but her responsibility held her back. Mort was curled up in the fetal position on his bed, hands over his ears, eyes shut. Moving slowly and deliberately, Carly sat down on the foot of his bed, waiting for him to look up. He was trembling with shock and stress, and she hated those men. Rainey was ultimately very gentle. They'd had no right to come in here and upset him this badly. His recovery from this could take days, if not weeks.

"Hello, Mort," she called softly. "It's Dr. Beckham. I'm sorry those men upset you, but they're gone now." The only visible response was a cessation of his trembling, but she did notice that he had a light-colored crayon in his hand. "I'm going to get some paper, alright? I'm not leaving. Not until you're feeling better." It was the work of a few seconds to grab a paper and bring it back to the bed.

"Mort? Do you know what they were asking you?" No response. "Alright. That's alright. It's not important anyway. What I need for you to do is to tell me if you're okay. I have a paper, and I want you to write on it." Still moving slowly because she didn't want to alarm him, Carly sat the paper in his lap. "Mort . . . how are you?"

Minutes ticked by and Carly just sat and watched her patient. Pressing him for answers wouldn't gain results, and he probably found the silence most welcome. Rainey was a quiet man, always in his stockinged feet and taking care not to bump into things. Even alone, he didn't seem to take pains to fill the silence with the sounds of the living. Carly understood that need for silence to some extent, but for Rainey it seemed to be another refuge. It was harmless; she'd let it stand for a bit longer.

Finally though, Mort picked up the paper. Without once looking at her, he wrote the word "ugly" on the paper.

"Ugly? You feel ugly?" she asked gently. "Where? How?"

-_Tap, tap, tap, tap- The_ crayon bounced off the paper as he considered whether to answer or not. After several minutes he did. **Inside. Bad feelings.**

"Bad feelings? Was it those men? Did they disturb you?"

**Away**

"They are away, Mort. I made them leave. I won't let them come back unless you want them to."

**No**.

"Alright then. They'll stay away. I'll make sure to leave orders with the staff that no one is supposed to come in and see you unless you say. Is that a good idea?" He shrugged. "Well, we'll try it. Do you want me to stay?" No reply. "Would you like me to leave?" He looked around the room. "Alright. I'm going to go then. I'll make sure Toby comes in and visits you soon. How does that sound?" Either he didn't care, or he was no longer paying any attention to her.

Standing, Carly straightened her coat and automatically reached for the clipboard she hadn't had time to grab. "Right. I'll see you later, Mort." His hand twitched in his lap, the fingers moving as if in parting.

* * *

**Author Thanks:** As always, thanks for actually reading, and more specifically, **Spoofmaster** (wow – if you're up at 1 am doing homework, you're a much more dedicated student than I ever was, and you're getting way too much work from your teachers. I lodge a e-protest for you.); **Wayward** **Slinky** (I agree – Mort's robe is great. I knew I had to let it guest star. Oh, and _I'm caught up!!!!_ grins); **HumiliatedGrape** (It was that image of Mort holding his things that kept the chapter going as long as it did. When I start a chapter, I think of where I want to finish, and that was it. In the book, Amy was nicer than she was in the movie – I'd go so far as to say she was likable – which is why I try to portray her that way. And yes, Ted is an ass. Thanks for catching that wrong name again. I'm getting really close to finishing that fic, so I guess I was just eager to go write another chapter of it.); **Dawnie****-7** (I'm glad you approve of Mort's pace of recovery. It's hard sometimes to balance my plot and the reality of how long it'd take to recover from such a thorough mental breakdown, but apparently I'm doing alright so far.); **Sparrow** **Lover** (I don't think Shooter is going to show up in this story, but I can't really be sure. I'm sure Mort wasn't expecting him either. Thanks for catching that mix-up with Tom and Greg. Wrote Tom just a few times too often there. :P); **A Cheerful Reader** (Well, I'm glad that I sound convincing even if I have no idea what I'm talking about. Who says TV and fiction books aren't educational? ); **Nithke** (But I like the poultry allusions. They're cute. I know what you mean about short chapters. I'm always left looking at the screen and wondering where the rest is. Instead of updating every other day, I think some authors could wait a week and put out a real chapter. Of course, I think most that are prone to such behavior aren't really writing strong characters either. Just in case that ticked anyone off, I'm sorry if I offend. That's just my opinion, and I'm not saying that applies to everyone. Whew, had to get the disclaimer in there. I keep calling Carly Tess because half my mind is always plotting out what's going to happen next in my OUATIM fic. I gotta stop that. Carly has always been Carly though. There was never another option for a name.); **CaptainJackSparrowsGirl** (claps I'm glad you have your own copy of SW now. That's a very nice thing to have. And you're right, you must wait for future chapters for more information. And I'm just getting started. evil grin); **normal** **human** **being** (lol – glad you approved of all the Mort. And yes, the whole Carly/Tess thing drives me absolutely insane each time I do it. I have no idea what an Aberystwyth Experience is, but I'm guessing it doesn't have much to do with marauding Welshmen. shrugs); **Stalfan125** (heh – I had a teacher in school whose name was Stahl. It was a fun class. Anyway, I'm glad you're enjoying this story. That makes it worthwhile for me.); **quick29** (Thanks. It's going to be awhile though before Mort opens up and talks. A long while. I've got plans. ); **Depp-Lover49** (You sound like Dr. Seuss. It'll be a chapter or two I think before Mort makes it outside, but I'm going to get him there. It's going to happen.)


	12. Chapter Eleven

**Author's Note:** Alright. This chapter is shorter than the last two, but longer than most of the ones I've written so far. After the last chapter what with its murder and mayhem, I felt like I wanted to write a really character driven chapter, and I certainly hoped I succeeded. I got this out a bit later than I wanted, but sooner than the deadline I'd set for myself. Seems like I was running right down the middle of the road with this one. ;)

Anyway, author thanks at the end, and I hope you enjoy.

* * *

Lawley was waiting outside Rainey's door. As she left, he fell in step with her, and as she'd guessed, the explanations immediately started flowing. "They were just doing their job –"

"If that's how they do their job, then they need to be fired."

Lawley just shook his head. He understood that she had a right to be upset, but the woman was impossible. "Have you ever noticed just how much you interrupt people?"

"If you have something to say to me, say it. I don't have time for idle chit-chat and pussyfooting around." Carly stopped in the middle of the hallway and crossed her arms, waiting for him to speak. "Well?" Her foot started to tap. She hated the amused look on his face.

"You were right, okay? That's all I wanted to say. I totally agree with everything I overheard you say to the detectives. You would be fully within your rights as a doctor to press charges, and I'll give you whatever aid you need if you decide to pursue that course of action."

For a long minute Carly just stared at him, weighing his words and trying to decide whether or not he was making the offer to get on her good side. Not that he had any proof that she _had_ a good side. "Why are you being nice to me?" she finally asked, glad no one else was in the hallway.

He shrugged. "Other than the fact that you have me intrigued?" When she frowned, he hastened to add, "You're very passionate about your duties to those under your care. You've put in more hours on Rainey than Dr. Wright ever did. And while yes, I do need to eventually talk to him in order to firm up the details of my case, that's not why I'm being nice to you. I like you, although a good reason seems to be escaping me at the moment."

His own admission of what she already knew – that she was behaving like a harpy – made her reconsider her first impression of him. It also made her lips quirk up into a tiny smile before she could stop them.

"Was that a smile?" Lawley couldn't help but press his advantage while he had it.

"No." She started walking again, annoyed at herself for letting her mirth show in front of someone who was going to pester her about it.

"I think you're lying, doctor."

"And why would I do that?" _Go away._

"Because I think I make you comfortable."

"What?!" Carly paused in the hallway again, this time totally taken by surprise. "Why would you think a thing like that?" Why would he when she put so much work in appearing unaffected by anything?

"When was the last time a guy asked you out for coffee?" Lawley folded his arms across his chest and leaned against the wall.

_I'm not telling him that!_ Carly cursed his too perfectly blond hair and grayish-hazelish . . . _Just what color are his eyes supposed to be anyway?!_

"Doctor?" he prodded.

She raised her chin and looked down her nose at him. "I hardly think that this is an appropriate conversation considering one of my co-workers is dead."

Lawley could read far enough into her non-answer to know that offers for coffee – or anything else – had been few and far between. He didn't feel sorry for her; no, it cleared the field for him. So instead of pressing his point, he allowed her to redirect the conversation.  
"A co-worker you didn't get along with, and with whom you had a heated argument with less than 48 hours before his death. A fact with the detectives most likely suspect if they don't know for sure. They will have interviewed the hospital staff, and they have more than likely asked questions about Dr. Wright's work here. Your name has come up. Now, when you go down to visit them at the station –"

"That's not my concern at the moment," she sniffed, once more marching determinedly down the hall. She needed to find Toby and send him in to sit with Rainey for awhile, and then –

A hand around her elbow – a shockingly _real_ hand – stopped her short and spun her around. "Now see here –"

"No." This time it was Lawley who interrupted. "For once you are going to allow me to interrupt you." His eyes were the most serious she'd ever seen them, with no sign of his teasing good-humor in them anywhere. "This is not a little thing that you are caught up in. I know the detectives that were here today. I've worked with them. When they realized who you were, I recognized their tone. In their minds, you are now just as much of a suspect as your patient, and you'd do well to keep that in mind and stop acting as if you're untouchable."

"I think you've proved _that_ point," she said icily, shooting a pointed look at his hand. "If you'd be so kind, I have rounds to complete before I am free to go anywhere. With all this ruckus, I have still another patient that will be difficult to calm, and a friend to console." Though she was released, she didn't immediately leave. After the stunt he'd just pulled, she was going to give him a chance to apologize.

Not that he did. "Promise me you'll think about what I said."

Although he'd physically let her go, his eyes held her. _This is the man who lives in a courtroom,_ she realized. When she looked at this man, she couldn't understand how she'd ever considered him as ultimately inconsequential. _And I'm staring like a ninny._ She tossed back the hair she hadn't had a chance to restrain, and replied, "I'm not in the habit of disregarding advice without considering it, Mr. Lawley."

It was his turn to grace her with a small smile. "It's Mick, and you're lying." Carly opened her mouth to protest, but he cut her off. "I'll let it slide this time, but take into _consideration_ that part of my job is spotting a lie when I see one." With an sardonic tilt of his head, he dismissed himself and left Carly to her indignation.

* * *

"And then, and do you know what he had the balls to say then?" Carly was pacing back and forth in the break room, pouring out her difficulties to a largely unsympathetic audience. "He called me a liar! Me! I don't have a problem being straightforward with people, Leo. Aren't you one of the ones always telling me that I'm too blunt? Where does he get off accusing me of _lying_?"

"Ok, Carl, I know you didn't like Steve that much, but why are you obsessing over this now? Especially if the guy _likes_ you."

"What do you mean 'especially if he _likes_ me?' He doesn't like me. He's not trying to make friends, he's trying to get information."

"That's not the kind of like I meant, and you know it."

Carly gaped. "He does _not_. He does not _like_ me."

"Then you like him."

"I do _not_!" She collapsed into a chair and buried her face in her hands.

"Then why are you so unsettled by this man paying you any attention?"

"When was the last time a man seriously paid me any attention?" Carly mumbled to her friend.

"When did you decide that one failed relationship was a good reason to live the life of a nun?"

"Somewhere between signing the divorce papers and sobering up," she muttered. "That entire period of my life is just a bit blurry."

"And you're sober now. Hasty decisions made while drunk are never the best. Let the guy hit on you."

"I don't want him to!"

"Why not?" Leo started to count off reasons on her fingers. "He's not at all hard on the eyes, he's approaching you despite your characteristically prickly behavior, he hasn't taken off running in the other direction. . ."

"So? You don't run in the other direction and I don't want you hitting on me." She sounded petulant even to herself, but Leo only laughed.

"Oh dear . . ." she finally gasped. "I needed that. Girl, if you could have heard yourself!"

Carly endured another round of laughter, smiling ruefully. "Glad I could help."

"You did." Leo took a seat at the table, setting a heavily-sugared cup of tea in front of Carly as she cradled her own cup of coffee. "It's been a long, hard day." This statement immediately sobered both women. "Nothing like this has ever happened around here," Leo murmured as she took a sip of her brew. "We've had patients assault doctors, or staff assault other staff, or just patients going at it. But murder?"

"They think one of my patients did it," Carly replied, staring blankly at the table. "He's here for suspicion of two other murders, but I don't think he's capable of it. Hell, he won't even _look_ outside, Leo, much less _go_ outside. And he's not violent. He was when he first came here, but he was also delusional. Now he's just . . ." She sighed. "I don't know what he's just. He doesn't talk, and he rarely tries to communicate. He can, he just chooses not to. I think he's recovering from some sort of internal trauma. But there's a big difference from being violent months ago and murdering someone now against all conclusions that _any_ psychiatrist would draw from observation." _Or at least almost any psychiatrist. Steve didn't seem to think so._ "And why would he target a man who ineffectually saw to him nearly three months ago? It doesn't make any sense at all."

"So who do you think the police should be looking at? One of the staff?"

This time when Carly smiled, it was a grim one. "I guess no one got to you then. There's already been some questions about me. Someone let spill that Steve and I never saw eye to eye. On anything. And were more than willing to loudly discuss it." When she looked up, her friend's face was a perfect picture of shock. "Well, don't look so surprised. Haven't you ever watched Law and Order?"

"Carly Beckham! How can you joke about something like this?" Leo's voice was heavy with censure.

"It's not like I have anything to worry about. I didn't do it. I may have thought about throttling him a time or two, but that doesn't count."

"Well, did you correct anyone of their mistake?"

"I'm supposed to go down to 'the precinct' after my shift –"

"Which was half an hour ago. What are you still doing here?"

"Putting off the inevitably unpleasant?"

Leo stood and pointed at the door. "Out."

"Can't I finish my tea?"

"Out."

"But –"

"Out!" By this time, both women were smiling a little again.

"Tyrant," Carly muttered under her breath, dumping her drink down a nearby drain.

"Do you want me to come? For moral support?" Now that Carly was being sensible, the older woman felt comfortable offering a kindly shoulder.

"After that display? I think you'd be about as supportive as a drill sergeant come Lamaze coach." She slipped into her coat and grabbed her purse. "I'll see you tomorrow and will come prepared with masses of horror stories, I'm sure." Having gathered everything she needed, Carly let her hands fall to her sides. "How was Todd when he left?" The gardener had left as early as the police had allowed him to.

"He's shaken up and planning to take a few days off, but I think he'll be fine once he can turn his shock into righteous anger at having his domain so . . . desecrated."

Carly nodded. "Maybe I'll give him a call at home tomorrow or something. I'm sure he just wants to be alone with his wife tonight."

"You're stalling, Beckham."

"Can you blame me?" She shrugged. "Alright, I'm going before the drill master returns. Night, Leo."

"Night. Don't let them chew you up."

"After the day we've had? I think you'd best worry about them."

* * *

"Ah, Dr. Beckham, we're so pleased that you remembered our date."

The detective's tone as he pulled out a seat for her was grating. He was being no more than sarcastic, and his tone implied that if Carly hadn't come down to the station, then the men would have come to her and no one would have been happy.

"I would think that being here of my own free will no matter what the time would be enough to please you," she demurred as she took a seat in the offered chair. "After all, as far as I know you have plans to charge me with anything other than being bossy and uncooperative this morning."

"That was our mistake." The woman who spoke was new. Or at least, if she'd been at the hospital that morning, then Carly hadn't seen her. "I understand your dilemma this morning in kicking my colleagues out. My niece is autistic, so I understand the need to maintain a peaceful atmosphere."

The doctor gifted her audience with a tight smile. "I am sorry for your niece, but even if you understand autism, that doesn't necessarily mean you understand other forms of mental or developmental handicaps. Your niece at least can communicate when something displeases her. She can throw tantrums, and objects, or scream at the top of her lungs. My patient can't. Your 'colleagues' had no right to be interviewing him _alone_. We won't even discuss the rules they were breaking by entering his room without express consent from the doctor in charge – which would be me – or an administrator."

This little speech destroyed any and all chances of consideration being shown her, but Carly didn't care. The last thing she'd come here to do was to be patronized, and that's what the woman had been attempting to do. "Now, its getting late and I need to get home to feed my cat. Please, ask the questions you need to and let me leave."

The officers looked at each other and shrugged, then got down to business.

"Where were you the night and morning of May 19th, Dr. Beckham?"

"Why?" She was purposefully being difficult. It was small consolation for what the men had done to Rainey that morning, but it was all she could do without being thrown in jail or getting a formal reprimand put in her file.

"Several of your co-works said that you and Dr. Wright got along like cats and dogs. We hear you were always arguing about something – usually pretty heatedly, and often in front of an audience. It would be an easy thing to do to strike out in the midst of that sort of anger. We've seen it happen before. We've also seen people lie about it until they're facing a life term or two in the state penn. We just want to save you that trouble before you get too deeply invested."

_Assholes._ "I was on the phone until a few minutes before three. And then I went to bed."

"Can anyone confirm this? A husband? Boyfriend? Lover?"

_Yeah right._ "I'm single, but if you ask nicely, I'm sure my cat would back me up. Or you could just ask my mother since I was on the phone with her the entire time."

"You were on the phone with your mother until three in the morning? You two must be close."

Carly shook her head. "Not particularly. My brother is getting married in August, and I'm one of the bridesmaids. My mother is particularly overbearing, and she wanted more details than I wanted to give, which caused an argument. And my mother is not in the habit of letting things go. The only way to have any peace for the rest of my life, was to settle things. It took nearly three hours to do that."

"And if we called your mother, she'd tell us the same story."

"I would certainly hope so. She's old, not suffering from dementia."

"Fine. If you'd give us her number?" Carly rattled it off. "Thank you, doctor. Now, in any of these arguments, did you or Dr. Wright ever threaten one another? No necessarily with violence, but perhaps something that might be a threat to one's career?"

"No. We are – were – both adults. We might have been so unprofessional as to insult the other on a personal level –"

"What kind of insults?" By this time, everyone was taking notes.

"Just the normal 'whose aftershave smells like rotten tomatoes' versus 'she's nothing more than a block of ice.' But insults were always a last result. We preferred to duke it out in the professional area. Who cured more patients, who got handed the failures of other doctors, that sort of thing."

"And Mr. Rainey, he was one of those failed cases that was passed off to you from Dr. Wright?"

Bringing up anything to do with her patient was crossing the line as far as Carly was concerned. She stood. "I can't answer that. Am I free to go?"

"Not quite yet. We still need you to answer some questions about Mr. Rainey. We know that –"

She interrupted. "No."

"You didn't hear the question."

"It doesn't matter. The answer is still no because I have no legal right to be telling you anything. I know you hate the term 'doctor/patient confidentiality,' but that doesn't make it go away. On top of that, I don't feel comfortable on a moral level, not just a professional trying-to-cover-my-ass level. If you want information, you're going to have to go to Rainey's ex. She has power of attorney. Unless I hear directly from her, I'm afraid that not only can I not answer your questions, but I can't allow you to see Mr. Rainey. You," she pointed at the two men who were the cause of her anger, "are as lucky as hell that he didn't have an episode after you left. If he had, I'd be here pressing charges right now. As it is, I'm willing to forgive and forget as long as no further actions are taken that might disturb my patient." Carly gifted the room with a brittle smile. "Now, I really must be going."

There was nothing they could do to stop her from leaving, so the detectives just looked at each other then back at her. "Don't go too far. We may have questions later."

She choose to deliberately misunderstand. "I have a job, one that I have to appear at in the morning. Considering the amount of time I spent sleeping last night, I won't be going anywhere but home."

* * *

After a few hours of lying in bed, exhausted yet unable to sleep, Carly got up and dressed. Utterly disgusted, she grabbed her keys and left the house, unsure of where she was headed at this time of night, but unable to stay inside a moment longer.

She drove around for nearly an hour before deciding that she couldn't continue wasting gas for so frivolous a reason as stress-induced insomnia. Before she knew it, she was in the parking lot of Briar Ridge. It was awkward for her to go into the building while dressed in sweats – and rumpled ones at that – but now that she was here, she might as well check in on Mort.

There was a big difference between "checking in" on someone though, and standing outside their door, watching them. The nurses had reported that Mort had occasional been battling insomnia since he'd been moved to the second floor, but they hadn't said how bad it was. Like Carly, he was restless, pacing back and forth, back and forth, back and forth across the floor of his room. He would switch a lamp on, study the effect it had for several minutes, then switch it back off. The moon was a few days away from full, and the light from where it came in near the top of the blinds cast shadows on the wall. It seemed to Carly that he was searching for the source of the shadows.

"Excuse me, but you can't be here –" As the nurse got closer, she must have recognized Carly despite the rumpled clothing. "Oh, sorry, Dr. Beckham. I didn't realize who you were. After this morning, I didn't want to take any chances."

"Perfectly understandable, umm . . ." She racked her brain for the woman's name. "Claire. Right?"

"Yes, doctor."

"Alright. I'm going to go in for a little while. This seems to be as good a time as any to tell him about the humongous window that came with the room."

"I'll call security and have them send someone up." The nurse turned to leave.

"What? Wait. Why do you need to call security?"

"Orders from Dr. Holshack, ma'am. All doctors seeing any patients at any time after normal working hours must have a guard or an orderly waiting outside the door."

"So it's not just –" _Rainey_ " – me?"

"No. After yesterday, no one is to take any chances. The guard won't go into the room with you, but he will be listening through the intercom."

_Perfect. Now on instead of the patients having little privacy, they have none._ Orders were orders though, and no matter how hard Carly fought these, she wasn't going to win. "Okay. I'll be inside." Before anymore protests could be lodged, she slipped into Mort's room.

Her patient spun around, taken by complete surprise by his visitor. Carly noted that his first reaction was one of trying to hide himself in plain sight, not one of self-defense. Or at least not self-defense in terms of violence.

"It's alright, Mort. It's Dr. Beckham. You know me." He looked around his arms at her, apparently unable to merge the image he held of her as the white coat clad doctor, and the rumpled woman before him. "It's night. I couldn't sleep so I decided to come down and see how you were doing." Turning the conversation onto mundane topics, Carly leaned back against the door and waiting for Mort to adjust to her presence. "Did Toby come in a visit you this afternoon?"

Mort nodded, shrugged, then nodded again, giving Carly the impression that he vaguely remembered the other man's presence, but couldn't remember if it'd been that day or a previous day. He didn't stop his pacing.

Carly watched him in silence for a few more minutes. He was agitated, but it wasn't anything nearly as intense as the behavior she'd originally observed in him. Slowly but surely, he was learning how to manage his emotions and impulses. It was a sign of recovery and adjustment. Both were very good things.

As she watched, he returned to the lamp and flicked it on and off several times, seemingly taking note of what shadows were thrown by the light bulb, and which weren't. After turning the lamp off a final time, he shook his head and resumed pacing, now and then throwing a glance at the far wall where phantom tree branches blew.

"Do you want to know where they're coming from, Mort?" He glanced at her but didn't indicate that he wanted her help. "The shadows. I see you watching them, trying to tell what's causing them. They're coming from the window."

Her words caused him to look around bewilderedly, the crown of his head catching a ray of moon light for a brief second before disappearing back into the shadow. Finally he turned back to her, his eyes accusing, as if she'd just lied to him. "Where is the window?" she heard him ask in her mind. The strange fancy made her smile.

"The window is behind the blinds," she murmured. "See them over there? Opposite your bed?" This time when he turned to look, Carly walked over to stand at his side. "Right there. In the light the blinds are cream colored." His head twitched as if he'd only just kept himself from looking at her, but had stopped himself. "You can go look. They won't bite." That earned her a hand-flap, but he moved away from her warily.

Following behind, Carly walked with him to the window. Mort reached out a cautious hand and felt the blinds as a child might pet an unfriendly dog – gingerly and ready to snatch his hand back at the first sign of danger. His fingers made a soft "puth"-ing sounds as he ran them down the accordion-like folds. The top of the blinds ended a foot or so above his head; he couldn't see out. Couldn't prove that there was nothing more than wall behind the blind without pulling it aside and looking for himself. After a few minutes of contemplation, that was what he did.

Carly watched with nearly bated breath as Mort _slowly_ pulled the blinds aside. At the first sign of glass, he jumped back, his hands shaking. She heard him start breathing hard as his head started to shake in denial; as she'd suspected before moving him here, he was terrified of windows. But there was only so much that she could responsibly allow as his doctor, and this phobia – unfortunately – was not one of them. He had to be accustomed to seeing the outside world before she could take him there, and that meant having the window uncovered. And that meant a little "tough love" at the moment.

"Mort, listen to me." Carly grabbed his shoulders when he would have run to his bed. "No, you can't run away. Not this time." He pushed at her, but after so many months of little physical activity, his strength didn't even start to compare with hers, and he lacked the hysteria that would willingly make her release him. "No," she said sternly, shaking him a little. "No. You do not get to fight me about this. I know you're scared – I know that, I do – but you're hiding here. I realize that you're hurt inside and that you need a safe place to heal, but you can't allow yourself to spend the rest of your life here. Do you understand me?" He no longer physically fought her, but his reluctance to meet her eyes indicated that he was trying to ignore what she was saying. _I'll let him have that at least. That's something that everyone does._

"You need sunlight, Mort. Not just your mind, but your body. It is _good_ for you, and it can't get in until you're ready to lower the blinds all the way. See?" Releasing him with one hand, she pointed to the very top of the blinds where a scant nine inches of window was visible. "The blinds come down from the top. Not the bottom. I'm not going to force you to look out a window all in one day, but it has to happen eventually. I'm going to lower them a little tonight, just as soon as we're done talking, but that's the _last_ time I am going to do it. After that I'm leaving it in your control. But understand this." She ducked her head a little so that he had no choice but to look at her. "If you don't lower them an inch or two every week, either Toby or I will have to do it. I don't want to have to do that. I want _you_ to willingly do it yourself. But don't think I won't do it if I have to. Do you understand?" He wrung his hands. "Mort, do you understand?" He glanced off to the side.

_Nuh__-uh. _"Mort, look at me." Her sharp tone made him cringe, but he did reluctantly meet his eyes, and she softened her voice some. "Do you understand me?" He blinked a few times, shuffled his feet, then looked away.

"I'm going to take that as a yes," she sighed, letting him go. Instead of running somewhere safe as she'd suspected, he stood where he was. Carly didn't know what he intended to communicate by doing that, but she wasn't going to question it either. She also wasn't going to stand around and give him the impression that she was accustomed to making empty threats.

Moving decisively – but not too quickly out of fear of worrying him – she moved to the window and took the string to lower the blinds in her hands. She could hear the shuffling of feet behind her, but Carly didn't let that stop her. Taking great care, she lowered the blinds another three inches so there was a foot of glass visible at the top. Since the top of the windowpane was about seven feet off the floor, this still left the blinds high enough that Rainey wouldn't be able to see out of them.

"There, that's wasn't so bad, was it?" The question escaped her mouth _before_ she turned around; the sight that met her eyes when she did was not an encouraging one. Mort was pale, sweaty, and shaking. It reminded her greatly of the picture that'd greeted her in her own mirror back when she was waking up with hangovers every morning, or when she'd been going through her de-tox cycle. "Well, bad enough, I suppose," she murmured as she went back to him. "That's all I'm asking for you tonight, Mort. Why don't you go to bed and then I'll leave you in peace."

Almost before the suggestion was out of her mouth, her patient was scuttling across the room. Carly didn't follow. She doubted her presence was very soothing at the moment. All she did was make sure that Mort got into bed – still clothed in his own sweats and his robe – before going to the door.

"I'll see you tomorrow, Mort. Sweet dreams."

With her back turned, she missed the shudder that swept over him at her words.

* * *

**Author Thanks: **thanks to **Sparrow Lover** (I knew bumping Steve off wouldn't upset too many people. That was one of the reasons I chose him. We'll see if I'm so merciful in the future, or even if I choose to do in anyone else. You never know because I'm a wild and crazy person. nods); **Stahlfan125** (You have a laptop? Cool. Personally I don't like them, but I think the only reason is because there's no number pad and the keyboard isn't angled. :P I'm glad though that this story helped start a school day. They're bad enough as is. And Steve – boy, no one has pity for that guy. Of course, I didn't choose the most dignified of ends for him either.); **Scarlett** **Burns** (Scarlett! pretends she gets slapped Not sure I deserved that … wonderful review. ;) I'm so very glad you approve of the way I'm writing this SW fic. It's hard because I – and everyone else – want Mort to be well, and then there's all the other fics in this section, etc., etc., etc. I hope this chapter came soon enough to keep you from withering, because if you did, I'd never get an end to Sands Through the Hour Glass, and I'm on tenterhooks to find out just what is going on there.); **Dawnie-7** (Snoopy dances. grins That Steve. Well, I'm glad his demise brought everyone so much joy. And Mort's nickname for Carly, it just seemed right because in the movie – and especially in the novella – Mort, when he's not focusing on Shooter, is focused on Amy. So there we go.); **A Cheerful Reader** (lol. Oh dear. I'm really not trying to parallel your life or anything. I actually got the idea from watching "I Love the 80's" recently. They had a segment on "Mommie Dearest" and the line "No…more…wire…_hangers!_ kinda stuck with me. I'm glad you – and everyone else – has the killer fingered. Apparently mystery writing is not my forté. ); **Savvy** **TBird** (If you're finding this story to be realistic, then I've succeeded in writing it.); **CaptainJackSparrowsGirl** (After what Mort went through, it seemed to me that he might pull an Ichabod and go ahead and faint at the sight of blood. Thank you for waiting; that you do it just for me makes it even more special.); **Rebel** **Lady** (don't worry about reviewing every chapter. I understand that there is such a thing as real life, even if I don't want there to be. I'm glad that the Steve/Carly wrestlemania episode was well received. It was fun to write.); **Nithke** (I hope I'm on a roll. That would be great. Have to watch out for crumbs though. ;) Eunuch chapters. lol I lime that! What a great term. And great way to continue the poultry theme. You leave me unable to cry fowl. ); **Isola** (lol, you're not lazy. You were just involved in another story. :P I loved the novella. It was frickin' amazing. I'm so very glad that I've gained your approval with this fic. That is always one of my biggest concerns when writing. Like the last time could have been a fluke or something.); **Merrie** (I decided to let Carly have some fun – thus, the ass-kicking episode. I kinda like Lawley too, which is turning out as a surprise since I didn't originally envision him as acting like this. In fact, he started as a family man…so much for that. And Toby is here just for you, so I certainly hope you like him. Perhaps I'll have to work in some goldfish sooner or later. ); **Gaze** (I've grown up in a time where its relatively easy to fine sheroes in books and in the media, which is lucky. My favorite authors – Tamora Pierce, Garth Nix, Robin McKinley – all have butt-kickin' females as their leads. I'm just glad that I have an audience that's receptive to all this. Twenty years ago that might not have been the case. I'm glad the murder was a surprise, but I felt that this needed to be more than a 'how Mort got better' story so there we go.); **Isabela** **Pucini** (Typos. rolls eyes That's what happens when you don't have a spell check. I grimace even to think about what my chapters would look like without one. I find myself switching POV's not to keep things entertaining, but whenever I find myself stumped by a single POV. By switching, I get to see things out of new eyes, and I can continue. But I'm glad I do it if it makes things easier to read. Dictionaries are a girl's best friend, and I maintain that POV until I need an atlas. Then I switch. ); **pandagal** (They dare think it because it is the easiest conclusion. Shooter? Perhaps. You'll know eventually.); **Blue** **Autumn** **Sky** (I'm glad you're finding this story so enjoyable. That is one of the reasons I write. I hope this update came soon enough, and that it does not in fact, find you dead.)

Alright, just one more thing before I sign off. I'm starting a new fic called Post Script. It's a fanfic based on From Hell, yet another wonderful performance by Mr. Depp. I hope to have it up in the Misc. forum in this section by the end of the week. It's going to be rated PG-13, so please come by and read a chapter or two.


	13. Chapter Twelve

**Author's Note:** bah. This took longer than I wanted it to. It's harder than I want it to be to balance plot and progress. This chapter I decided on progress, so there's a lot of Mort. Be ready for the next chapter though – I plan to return to plotting, and I adore plotting. So read, enjoy, and remember than author's thanks are at the end.

* * *

The day was bright, sunny, and beautifully scented by growing things. The display was almost obscene when one stopped to consider that a funeral was taking place. Consequently, the result of such pleasant weather was that Carly found her mind wandering from the minister's words of the "dearly departed." As long as her mind _was_ wandering, she tried to keep it on matters of importance – like setting up a consistent dialogue with Rainey, or how to avoid talking to her mother until she was off the warpath, or when it was time to get Bast's rabies shot renewed – and off things of no importance. Like how to avoid Lawley the next time he came calling, and that he would was a given. She wasn't going to be rid of the man until Rainey's case was settled.

The problem was, he was starting to grow on her – just a little – and she didn't know what to think about that. She'd been so young when she'd fallen in love with her ex. Just a junior in high school. They'd gotten married four years later, and then she'd decided to go to graduate school…and life threw one too many fastballs at them. A drawn-out and nasty divorce had turned her off from the whole dating scene for years, and it wasn't until a few years ago that she'd even started to see men as anything less a species she was force to share the planet with so she might as well make the best of it. She was no longer a young girl to give over her heart at the drop of a hat or a dimpled smile, and she wasn't the drunk who was bitter about her divorce, and she wasn't the single-minded young career woman. No, now she was older, wiser, and severely out of practice when it came to the single's scene.

Carly jolted when Leo elbowed her for absently nodding when the minister asked if there was anyone who wanted to say a few words about the deceased.

"Well, don't be shy," the minister gently prodded. "Come on up."

Nearly panic-stricken, Carly looked to her friend for a way out, and Leo just shook her head. So far, no one had volunteered to say anything about Steve, even after several prompts for someone to do so. If Carly was so out of it as to volunteer without knowing, then that was her problem, and she'd best think of something to say fast.

Hiding the glare she wanted to send Leo's way, Carly calmly stood and walked around the closed coffin to stand next to the minister. Looking around at her colleagues – all of whom knew how she and Steve had gotten along, and half of whom were hiding smiles – and shook her head. If she were anything less than honest, she'd never live it down.

"I think most of you know," she started, "that there was no love lost between Dr. Wright and I. We never got along or agreed on anything, and would contradict each other out of sheer perversity at times. I didn't agree with his methods, and he took exception to my personality. More than one of you had the dubious pleasure of witnessing one of our disagreements, and more than half of you probably heard stories of one. But despite our . . . numerous differences," Carly hesitated, kicking herself for what she was about to say, because even though it was truly the way she felt, no one would ever let her forget it. "Despite all that, he didn't deserve to be . . . killed . . . the way he was. So perhaps he and I agree on something after all." Once more nodding her head, Carly scurried back to her seat with all the dignity she could muster, and vowed to pay more attention to the rest of the service.

That resolve lasted her about ten minutes, and then her mind was wandering to the problem of how to set up a dialogue with Rainey. Hand-flaps, head-tilts, and the occasional written word were all well and good, but it wasn't enough. His avoidance of regular communication was the major stumbling block in front of all his other problems. If she couldn't get him to talk – or write – with her for a good ten minutes a day, then he was never going to be comfortable with other people, with going outside, or even with letting down his own blinds. She knew the chain of reasoning: if I don't talk, then no one knows I'm here, and if no one knows I'm here, then I'm not, and I don't have to deal with anything. But everything she'd tried up until now had done nothing to break that chain. The reasoning was faulty, but no less real for that.

"You're not paying attention."

Carly fought the urge to roll her eyes. "Thank you, Leo," she murmured. "I have other things to be doing and worrying about. I don't mean to sound callus, but let the dead bury the dead." From the row of seats kitty-corner from the two women, Drs. Holshack and Marchman were giving them censuring looks. They obediently fell silent and Carly tried to resume her train of thought.

_Nothing I've done so far has baited him out. The most reaction I've ever seen from him happened twice under stressful circumstances – which would be Mrs. Rainey's visit, and those detectives – and once in reaction to something he read._ She gathered some insights from that, but the last thing she wanted to do was place Rainey in yet another situation that he'd find so stressful that he might relapse. Until now, her best bet for luring him out of his protective shell of silence was the big move, but that had been . . . spectacularly ineffectual. He was showing more physical activity, true, and he didn't spend hours staring at a blank wall anymore, but he wasn't speaking in more than one or two word sentences, and that only occasionally.

_So what can I try next?_ Negative attention would be a bad idea, so setting up a system of penalties each time he failed to "use his words" was out of the question, not to mention that she'd always resisted doing such things in any case but to stop bad behavior, and Rainey wasn't behaving badly. He was behaving too well in her opinion. And since he'd never really clued her in to what his opinion was, hers was the only one that mattered at the moment.

_If I can't use negatives to train him into a pattern of communication, then logical choice would be to use positive attention._ But what kind of positive attention could she use that wouldn't make him more uncomfortable? Normally she'd use a trip through the gardens or to a special destination as a bribe, but that wouldn't work in this case. Trips outside his room were still out of the question because . . .

_**Should** they be out of the question? Rainey's shown that the only way he'll adapt to the environment around him is for the environment to force itself on him. There's a limit to what he can stand, of course, but if I started a routine of daily walks through the ward, or even a half an hour of time spent in the common room with some of the lower level functioning patients . . ._ The idea had potential. As a matter of course and Toby's training, she ought to discuss the idea with him first, especially since it'd be his job to accompany Rainey on these outings most of the time. That and the younger man seemed to have set up his own relationship with Rainey, something she'd watched develop and been encouraged by. It was proof that her patient was still capable of forming connections with people. Besides, her relationship with Rainey was that of doctor and patient, a position she liked to keep with those under her care. Toby was probably the closest thing Rainey had to a friend at Briar Ridge.

_Alright__, then that's what I'll consider doing next._ Having a plan to follow comforted Carly immensely. Not only did it give her a goal to shoot for in her effort to help her patient, but it gave her something to report to Mrs. Rainey, who was taking her position as Mort's legal guardian ever so much more seriously since that incident with the police.

The moment the mourners – or more specifically, the former co-workers – were excused, Carly was off and heading towards her car. Toby was at the institute with Mort since he'd barely even known Steve, and she wanted to talk this idea of hers over with someone as soon as possible so her optimism wasn't burned off by practicality.

* * *

"Hey Doc, I thought you weren't coming."

Carly shook her head. "Toby, which of us is the heavy around here? If push comes to shove, who is he more likely to listen to in the event that he doesn't want go? What he doesn't want to hear from you, he _has _to hear from me."

Toby thought about it for a moment, then nodded. "Point to you."

"You youngsters think you know everything," Carly teased as they walked down several identical corridors to get to Rainey's room.

"Oh, that's me. Young, foolish, and ignorant."

"If you know that, you learned more than I did in school."

"What are you talking about? I learned that from my mom, bless her cotton-pickin' heart."

_That's something I could have said,_ Carly thought, pausing outside of Rainey's room to look over her clipboard. Even here on the second floor, routine was everything. It drove some of the higher-functioning patients nuts (no pun intended), and the ones that had checked themselves in tried to understand, but it was a godsend for people like Rainey. There were several adults living here – either autistic, or suffering extreme dementia as a result of advanced Alzheimer's, or severe mental retardation – that would fall into hysterics if they so much as saw a nurse out of place without fair warning. Now Carly checked to make sure that the proper warnings had been made for the past week. They had been.

"Let me break the news," she murmured as she set her hand on the doorknob.

"You could have broken it earlier in the week."

The softly spoken comment was one she'd heard from him often enough over the past few days. She'd overruled on the simply hypothesis that the more time Rainey had to prepare himself, the better he'd be able to wall himself off from the real world when the time came to go exploring. _And that, ladies and gentlemen, would defeat the entire purpose of the exercise._ In a fair imitation of Rainey himself, Carly flapped a hand at Toby, telling him to let it drop. As she'd reminded him earlier, she was the doctor. If he ever decided to make a career change, then he could do as he wished.

Stepping into Rainey's room, Carly gave her customary greeting as she looked around. It was hard to be sure, but it looked as if he _might_ have lowered his shades. If he had, it'd been no more than an inch, and if _he_ hadn't, then she was seeing what she wished to see, because Toby knew better than to interfere without her order.

"Mort?" Greetings aside, Rainey was nowhere to be seen. Since the room was kept under constant observation, and it was plain to see that he wasn't underneath his bed, that left the bathroom as the only other place for him to be hidden away. She looked to Toby, who nodded and headed towards the bathroom. It wasn't uncommon for people as badly traumatized as Rainey to forget some of the common niceties . . . like closing the bathroom door if it was in use.

"Ambitious project, my friend." Toby's good-natured drawl was audible even where Carly still stood by the door. Trusting that she wasn't interrupting any acts of biology best kept private, the doctor headed to the bathroom as Toby continued, "However, I think a screwdriver would get the job done quite a bit –"

_CRASH!_

Carly ran the last few steps to the bathroom and peered inside to find Toby crouched over Rainey, who was sprawled on the floor. "What happened?" she asked, setting side her clipboard. The room was too small for her to push her way to Rainey's side, and since she didn't see any blood, she was disinclined to panic.

"I don't know," Toby said, confusion plain in his voice as he helped Mort to his feet. "One moment our man Mort is perched on the washstand, going at the screws that hold up the mirror with a bit of plastic, and the next he jumps like a scalded cat."

There was more to it than that; anyone would be able to see that bit of truth. Rainey was pale and trembling, more than willing to let Toby seat him on the closed toilet. Something the man had said, had obviously upset the writer.

Once Mort was safely seated, Toby exchanged places with Carly, letting her go to Mort's side. "Anything hurt?" she asked softly, chafing wrists, elbows, knees, and ankles. Mort brushed her aside. "I'll take that as a no then. Care to tell me why you were trying to take down your mirror? It'll be hard to shave without it." Not that it was much of a trial to shave with an electric razor. Any other kind was banned.

Mort briefly looked away from her to glare at the piece of mirrored glass, then he looked down at his hands. He didn't have the bit of plastic anymore; his eyes moved to the floor, obviously searching for the dropped tool.

"I want you to keep the mirror, Mort." Carly said this firmly. "I want it to stay on the wall." Who knew what he could do with a piece of broken glass. At best, he'd be put under watch. At worst, he'd be sent back to the third floor under accusations of obtaining a weapon for uses that were unknown but obviously no good. "Do you understand?"

The answer she got from him, while undeniably proof that he _did_ understand, was not the kind of reaction she wanted: he pushed her away with enough strength to actually make her need to catch herself before she bruised her rear.

_Oh no you don't._ His irritation, or anger, or antagonism, was something she'd been waiting for for some time. It showed he was getting frustrated with his own slow progress. However, there were healthy and non-healthy ways to express that anger. The one he'd just chosen was an example of unacceptable behavior.

Carly grabbed his hands, forcing his attention back to her. "Mort . . . I asked you a question. Did you –" He pulled his hands free and shoved at her again. "No!" she snapped, once again taking control of his hands. "That is _not_ an answer. That is a display of temper, Mort. I understand how easily it is for someone in your position to get mad, what with people yammering at you all day long, but this doesn't help." All through her little speech, Rainey tried to free himself, but Carly hung on tight. "If you want me to stop, you need to use your words. You need to talk to me. Or make some sort of _non-violent_ signal that you want me to stop."

Rainey didn't stop his struggles, but Carly felt it was more important that he look at her, so she released one hand and tugged on his chin. Reluctantly, he met her eyes. "I know what you're trying to do," she informed him with a smile that was partially grim, partially wry. "Ignoring me isn't going to make me disappear. I'm going to let you go, but I want you to remember that from now on, there will be no such displays of temper. If you want to make a complaint, write it out. Or even better, tell me."

From the way his eyes slid away from hers, she knew she'd asked too much, but then she'd known that as the words had left her mouth. "Fine. We'll strive for short messages then. I'll get you a notepad that you can carry around." His surprise was apparently stronger than his need to sulk, because he looked at her again. "Don't give me that look," she said. "I'm the person trying to get you to talk again, remember? Of course I'm going to do anything I can to further that goal." This time when he looked away, he was blushing.

"Don't give me that," Carly teased, getting back to her feet. "Don't tell me that after all this time we've spent butting heads, that you're getting shy now." Although if he was, then it wouldn't be so bad an idea to take a few minutes to allow him to regain his mental footing. After that earlier display, she wanted him calm before she forced him to do something he was going to be uncomfortable with. _Alright__ then,_ she told herself as she walked to the door. _Decision made._

Leaving Mort in the peace of his refuge for at least the time being, Carly drug Toby into the living area. "We're going to follow the routine for a bit," she told him quietly. "I'd prefer to avoid any more outbursts."

"Especially since we're going to do something that you don't think he's going to like?"

Carly nodded. "Especially." The table next to them caught her eye. It was awfully bare. "I'll be right back," she said, suddenly inspired. "I'm going to confiscate a chess board or something. I want to see how his focus is coming along."

* * *

_I suppose everyone has to have a weakness or two,_ Carly comforted herself an hour later. The chess board – along with a set of checkers, and cribbage set – had been easily found and relocated. And Rainey had even been persuaded into playing. That wasn't the weakness she was talking about. _That_ weakness was her own, and the fact that she hadn't lasted more than a quarter of an hour against her mute patient. She'd never been any good at chess, and this was just further proof of it . . . _After all, Rainey and Toby have been playing for at least twice that amount of time, if not more_. No, Rainey was no chess prodigy, unless Toby was as well, and that was just plain unlikely.

She tried not to let her inglorious defeat bother her as she sat in a chair across the room and took notes. The fact that Rainey _could_ be bribed – _Ahem. **Interested.**_ – with games was something of a breakthrough, and she was ashamed that she hadn't thought of it earlier. Perhaps if he'd ever shown a greater interest in what was going on around him, she would have, but he'd seemed so unaffected by everything. Part of her had been sure that the moment he saw the games, Rainey would sit and try to figure out what purpose they served.

_What a mistake,_ Carly thought, shaking her head. If she had _really_ thought about it, she might have seen that a lack of focus on Rainey's part wasn't the problem. He wasn't trying to ignore everything; he was trying to focus on single _splinters_ of what had been his life. There was a difference. The former implied that he was too damaged to handle the world around him. The latter implied that his mind was sharper than she'd thought, and that he keeping his mind focused on a single goal. A goal unknown to her, but a goal nonetheless. _This business of finding and making tools, and now with the game, that implies that Rainey is aware of his surroundings. More than aware, in fact. He's able to assess a situation, and then come up with plausible solutions using the items at hand. _

By reevaluating Rainey's possible mental state, Carly changed the rules of the game on herself. It was like setting up a good game plan for football, and then finding out that the locals had meant soccer. Most of her plans, theories, and possible treatments were now obsolete. She needed time to review and regroup. Everything. Or almost everything. Their little field trip was still on, whether Rainey liked it or not.

"You know . . ." This sally from Toby interrupted Carly's wandering thoughts. "I think we've played to a draw." Both men studied the playing field with such intensity that she had to hold back a laugh. "Good game though. I haven't played in years." With a sigh, Toby knocked over his king and leaned back in his chair. "The next time we reach a draw, it'll be your turn to surrender. I'm not going to do it every time."

Mort looked at his companion reproachfully – whether it was because of the sudden end to the game or because of the knowledge that the next time he'd be expected to give in, Carly couldn't say – and got up from the table. He wandered about restlessly, ignoring everyone and wringing his hands.

_It'll be good for him to get out in more ways that one,_ Carly realized. He'd cooped himself up in this room, but that didn't mean that he wasn't feeling a bit claustrophobic by now. _Even if he decides he hates wandering about, getting out of this room for awhile will do him good. And if it stirs and interest in the outside world, that'll be more than any of us have managed yet._ Absently Carly wondered if she should start picking him up a newspaper every once in awhile, but she squashed the notion. With the way he responded to outsiders and the threat of any sort of mental dilemmas, he'd either ignore it or be thrown into a state of intrusion or hyperarousal. _Maybe in a few weeks,_ she amended, setting aside her notes.

"Okay, Mort," she said softly. "I have one more surprise today, and then I'll leave you be." Carly would have thought that her promising beginning had gone unheard if it hadn't been for the way that Rainey's shoulders minutely hunched. "I'm well aware that you don't like surprises," she told him, "but this one isn't so bad. It'll help with your restlessness at least." As if denying her words, Rainey's hands went straight into his pockets. "Very good, but you're still pacing. You're _always_ pacing. This room gets small, doesn't it?" This time he glanced at her over his shoulder. "You're lucky you're not claustrophobic, otherwise this room might get a bit small, but _not_ being claustrophobic isn't helping you either. You're pacing like a caged tiger. It's not good for you. It's not good for you to keep yourself closed up in here." Rainey glanced at the blinds that he either had or hadn't lowered, then turned his back on her again.

"I'm not going to force you to go outside," she assured him. "We'll do that when you're ready for it, and no matter how pushy I might seem at times, I know you're nowhere near ready for that. But," she warned as his shoulders started to relax, "I am going to start . . . suggesting . . . that you take a short walk around the ward at least three times a week. And you can go more often than that if you want. . . ." In his dismay, Rainey twirled around and looked at her, mild shock on his face. "You can't hide here forever, and Toby and I will come with you." His eyes looked at the door like a condemned man would look at a guillotine. "A short walk," she clarified. "Ten or fifteen minutes. But if you can tell me why you don't want to go, or write down why, then I'll postpone this until I've had time to think it over." He glanced over at the table and its supply of writing materials. "Can you do that for me, Mort?"

The long, silent minutes that followed were obviously full of indecision for the writer. Carly and Toby waited patiently on Carly's belief that if Mort really had any kind of real fear over their outing, he'd do what he could to avoid it. Rainey however stood rooted to the floor, his rock still form making no indication that he'd made any sort of decision.

"This is up to you, Mort," Carly murmured. "I think you know as well as I that you can't hide here forever. Your own spirit won't allow you to."

Something she'd said must have sunk in, because Mort's shoulders slumped, and he shuffled towards the door.

Carly hid the smile of triumph that his actions produced. "You'll want slippers," she said in that same soft voice as she reached for the doorknob. "The floor tiles in the hallway are probably a little chilly."

With both his caregivers at his side, Mort reluctantly faced the open door. They both stepped through the threshold, then turned to look at him. There was to be no force involved in getting him out of his refuge. Persuasion and outright coercion were one thing; Carly drew the line at physical intimidation and threats.

"Just a short walk," she murmured in her most calming voice. "The moment you want to turn back, you can. This is your choice. It won't happen unless you take the first step." Whether he'd realized it or not, she'd just drawn another line in the sand; his recovery was in his hands. Unless he made an effort, unless he wanted it, unless he accepted it, nothing she could do or say would be of any use. Mort was the only one who could free himself of the lonely room, physically and mentally.

The effort it took to place a single foot outside his sanctuary was visible on his face. The force of will it took to take the second step looked as if it pained him. His third step brought him within reach of the two people waiting for him. Step four was taken in synchronization by all of them.

* * *

Safe in his room and alone once more, Mort sat on the bed, legs curled under him. To the casual observer, he was staring blankly at the wall, but there was more going on under his blank gaze than one might guess. More was going on than _he_ could guess.

He didn't want responsibility. He didn't want to have to make his own choices, decisions, or opinions. He didn't want to know what was happening around him. He didn't want to feel., or think, or remember.

Especially not remember. If he let himself, he'd be able to remember the terror in Amy's eyes as he'd stood over her, realizing that he'd just been shot; how he'd found Ted and Greg. People said – he had managed to pick up on that much – that he was responsible for them, but that he couldn't remember. Other grisly images had to trouble forcing themselves on his mind's eye if he let down his guard, but he didn't' remember actually _hurting_ anyone.

The woman-who-wasn't –

_She's a doctor._

– the doctor . . . she was tricky. Somehow she managed to know exactly what he was doing and thinking. And she didn't let him do it. He didn't think he liked her, but that was an opinion he really didn't want to form. What if something happened because he made that kind of rash decision? He didn't think he was capable of hurting someone, but from the things that everyone else said . . .

Mort clutched his head, spearing his fingers through his hair. _No . . ._ He had to stop thinking like this. Had to stop thinking altogether. But the images of what he'd done – the mirror, the fall, striking out at another, game pieces on a board, bland halls stretching for what seemed like miles, blank-faced people led around by men and women in white or pastels . . .

_Go away. I don't want you._ The images didn't follow his order. They kept parading through his mind without order or care, tempting him to wonder, to string together stories for them, to make them a cohesive whole. But danger lied in that. He didn't exactly remember why it was dangerous, but it was. _But . . . they . . . won't . . . stop . . ._

He knew what they wanted, and while it scared him, he'd do anything to stop seeing the pale and nightmarish reflection of his own face. Of the blank faces of those unknown people, the ones that were what he was trying to be. Of _her_ words. She was wrong. He _could_ stay here, and everyone would be safer for it. If he was dangerous. He didn't know, but he'd find out before he'd risk leaving. In the meantime however, the images had to go.

On legs that quivered from the unaccustomed exercise he'd gotten, Mort walked over to the small table in his room and picked up a pencil. His handwriting wasn't what it'd used to be, but it was enough for his needs.

Carefully, painstakingly, he started to write down what he'd seen in stark detail. This method of excising his demons was familiar, and he'd do anything for a night of honest sleep. Sleep without dreams or recriminations. He wasn't sure he'd ever sleep that well again, not without a clear conscience.

_Was it me?_ Had it ever been him? Perhaps sleep wasn't the answer then, because in sleep he couldn't be sure of what he did. But he was so tired. Tired of all of this. If he could just get all of this out, then he'd be safe to sleep. Yes, it'd be safe.

_Sleep . . ._

* * *

**Author's Thanks: **I thank everyone for their patience in waiting for this chapter. Other thanks go out to **Dawnie****-7** (Well, I don't really plan to get all that deep into anything that could be considered item-dom. This isn't a romance, so romance will always take a back seat to everything else. And you've seen the type of 'romance' I tend to write, so I don't think you need to get scared.); **Stahlfan125** (I try to update in something like a timely manner, but sometimes I succeed better than I do at other times. rolls eyes I hope you enjoy this chapter as you did the last.); **CaptainJackSparrowsGirl** (I hate reading things on the fly, but I agree that at times it is necessary. I'm not sure From Hell ever made me cry, but I loved it all the same. Of course, I also thought that Abberline was being a bit paranoid, but go figure.); **pandagal** (lol. You're reminding me of Miss Congeniality. Good movie that. Mort will eventually come around – I think – but he'll fight it tooth and nail.); **Blue Autumn Sky** (Mort needs lots and lots of pity. nods Especially since I'm starting to get evil ideas. I know that this probably isn't considered "soon" but it's the best I had.); **Lynx** (I'm glad you like Carly. I've tried to make her separate from everyone else, but it's hard at times, or at least I feel like it is. I have no intention of hurting Carly again, or at least not in ways that I've already caused her to be hurt. I try not to be repetitive. I can't remember whose personality I based Toby on, but he seems familiar to me as I write him. I'll have to think about that.); **Gaze** (Don't worry about Carly . . . she won't always be the hardheaded 'ice queen' I started her as. With Mort, nothing is easy, so you're right about him and the window. I hope you find some of the authors I recommended as good as I do, and I totally agree that there can never be enough strong women in literature, although I think I might make an argument for the types of strength I'd like to see.); **HumiliatedGrape** (Don't worry about reviewing every chapter. I understand how that can go. My police detectives weren't thinking – I based them on the bad sides of the officers from Law and Order. They can get that way sometimes, and they sometimes get called on it.); **Nithke** (Don't worry about the window connection. I'm working off a line from the novella, not anything from the movie. I'm glad you're managing to keep up the fowl allusions, but I think I'm out for the moment. Perhaps I've been too…cooped up. ); **butterflywings32** (lol! Thanks for stopping the psycho talk. I was beginning to wonder there for a minute. I'm just very glad that you like my writing that much. : P The name slippages were do to another story I was writing at the same time and have since finished. Tess was my heroine in my OUATIM fics. After a year of writing her, it was more natural to write 'Tess' at times than it was to write 'Carly'. Hopefully I have that under control now.); **SS** (I'm very glad that the last chapter was that absorbing. I worry about myself sometimes, but that's probably only because I see my writing scene by scene at times, and not as a whole. I hope this chapter is just as good.)


	14. Chapter Thirteen

**Author's Note:** I am ashamed of myself. Here I was completely stuck on this story, despairing of ever finishing it, and it took me fifteen minutes to rework my plot once I finally did it. blushes And not only that, but I didn't write a word of anything for three months. ducks and waves white flag I'm sorry! I'm sorry! But at least I have a plot I can get along with now. That's something, right?

Lengthy and extensive author's thanks at the end. Please, please, please enjoy.

* * *

She didn't know what'd instigated it, but something was different. Rainey was . . . cooperating.

Well, he was cooperating to a certain degree – and not a degree more – but it was something. He still wouldn't talk and his written communication was spotty at best, but he was consistently making eye contact with not only Toby and herself, but with the nurses and orderlies they ran into occasionally on his outings. He didn't – _wouldn't – _look at the other patients though.

"That's okay though. Other patients aren't going to help him," Carly confided to Bast who was purring contentedly on her lap. Mort's avoidance of the other patients went deeper than that, she was sure of it . . . _Perhaps it's some version of denial. The sight of the other patients force him to confront that he is not so much different than they right now. And that would run parallel to his attempt to take down his mirror the week before last. . . _

Carly groaned in frustration and softly banged her head against the back of the couch. She was _supposed_ to be trying to relax. With a deep sigh, she got up and blew out the "serenity candles" that her soon-to-be sister-in-law had given her, and turned off the "Peaceful Reflections" CD she'd suggested. The one and only element of the whole "yin/naturalist/feng shui" kick that Penny was into that Carly happened to like was the bonsai tree. And she'd discovered that in college. That was the kind of plant that she could take care of. Well, those and cacti. She did _not_ have a green thumb. So it was without a trace of guilt that Carly swept up the kindly-meant gifts and shoved them into a box in her closet, along with all the other kindly-meant that she'd gotten in the past few years. The box was getting rather full.

_That closet is practically a graveyard for family presents._ It was true. Being somewhat estranged from her family did have its drawback. The "estranged" bit meant that no one knew her well enough to get her something she'd really like – and vice versa - and the "somewhat" bit meant that no one in their entire family knew what to get anyone else. Sometimes Carly wished she had more friends if for no other reason than it'd be easier to re-gift.

"Coffee." It was hard to go wrong with coffee. Even if it was two o'clock in the afternoon. Before Carly could make it into the kitchen though, her doorbell rang.

_That's odd,_ she thought as she stepped over her slow-moving cat – Bast liked company – _I'm not expecting anyone. I didn't forget about some kind of wedding hoo-ha, did I?_ For a moment she simply stood in front of her door, wondering if it was her mother, and if it was, could she get away with pretending she wasn't home. But she decided that hiding was childish, and if things got really bad, she could always pretend to need to leave.

She opened the door –

"Are you Carly Beckham?" Too surprised to speak, Carly nodded at the man on her doorstep who was holding a box marked with the Hallmark Florist's logo. The man handed the box over, wished Carly a good day, and went back to his van.

_What on earth is this?_ Carly wondered as she closed her door and carried the box to the kitchen table. It was about thirty inches long, and about a foot across; white and wrapped with a burgundy bow, it looked harmless. But there was no card, and Carly couldn't think of anyone who would want to send her flowers.

Her curiosity demanded that she open it right away. Her compulsive/addictive behavior demanded that cup of coffee first. Carly compromised by brewing herself a cup of decaf coffee – heavily spiked with creamer – before returning to the table.

_Dried flowers? I can't even imagine who would send me **living** flowers._ But a bouquet of dried flowers it was. An simply enormous bouquet that was going to have to be split between several different vases if she was going to keep it.

Carly identified sunflowers, red carnations, peonies, lilac, dahlias, fern, calla lilies, daffodils, and what she thought were primroses. Her nose picked up traces of honeysuckle, sage, fennel, and mint. And then there were other flowers and things that looked like small, flowering tree branches that she couldn't identify to save her life.

_What am I going to do with this?_ Although she knew it probably wouldn't produce anything, Carly delicately searched through the dried stems and blossoms for some sort of card, or note. Who would send her something like this? And who would send her something like this and then not take credit for it?

When the doorbell sounded for the second time in under an hour, Carly was still engrossed in her mystery. "Come in," she called distractedly.

The door opened and closed, and then there was silence. She didn't notice. In fact, she didn't emerge from her brown study until she heard someone loudly clearing their throat. Automatically looking up to ask if something was wrong, Carly's look of distraction turned into a faint frown.

"You're the one who told me to come in."

"I didn't know it was you," Carly groused as she studied Lawley, who'd apparently made himself at home in her living room. The fact that Bast was twining around the man's ankles only made her mood more sour. "Why are you here?" Wasn't it bad enough that he'd made a weekly practice of tracking her down at work? Was she going to have to start avoiding her own home now?

As if he could read her thoughts, Lawley said, "You're an amazingly hard person to get a hold of. And I had some questions about your latest batch of reports that I was wondering if I could ask you." He held up a perfectly innocent manila folder as if it gave him a right to be invading her space.

"So? Are you suddenly unable to use a telephone?"

Lawley grinned, as if she'd said something precocious. "I've noticed that you've taken to screening your calls."

Carly blushed, but didn't quite back down. "Maybe you should have taken the hint," she muttered.

"Maybe," Lawley agreed mildly, "but I've got reports of my own due Monday morning, and I'd really to ask you my questions before I write up the briefs." When Carly continued to glare at him instead of asking him to leave, he said, "Your coffee smells good. I don't suppose you've got an extra cup."

_Oooh . . ._ Carly's eyes narrowed imperceptively, but she got up and went into the kitchen. Only the tight reign on her behavior kept her from slamming cupboards and throwing filters around. And as a result of her restraint, she ended up with a cup of passable java. It wasn't quite steaming, but as far as she was concerned, that was still more than Lawley deserved.

When she emerged from the kitchen, she found Lawley standing over her dining room table, examining her botanical gift. "Looks like someone has an admirer," he commented, looking over his shoulder at her.

"If I do, it's news to me." She handed over his cup. Lawley took a sip, then shot her a look as he discovered the drink was only lukewarm.

Carly looked at him innocently. "Wouldn't want you to sue me if it was too hot."

He rolled his eyes, then turned back to the mound of dried flowers. "Obviously your admirer has an overstated opinion of your generosity."

Her first reaction was to prickle, but Carly shrugged his comment off. He got under her skin far too easily. It was time she put a stop it.

"Why do you say that?" she asked instead of snapping at him. This earned her a sideways glance of surprise – _Spending time with Rainey certainly helps my understanding of body language!_ – then Lawley shrugged.

"The mint and fennel mean virtue and worthy of all praise respectively." He turned in time to catch Carly's surprised face; he chuckled. "Flowers have long held particular meanings, and I was quite a romantic in grad school. I bought a copy of 'The Language of Flowers,' and started sending out small posies. Mostly they just got laughed off, but . . ." He shrugged. "I still remember some. I could take a stab at what this means if you want."

"Alright." Carly took a seat on the corner of the table and crossed her arms.

With the gauntlet thrown down, Lawley observed her for a moment, then got to work. Carly watched as he bent down over the box, his lips moving as he tried to remember something he'd only taken half-seriously years before. When he was like this – i.e. not annoying or trying to annoy her – he was bearable. He almost reminded her of a librarian back at her old high school.

A few minutes later Lawley straightened and took a sip of his coffee. "Your man – well, I assume it's a man –" Carly made a face, "thinks that you're unsurpassed in purity, loveliness, virtue, strength, intellect, elegance, and dignity. His regard will never fade, but he will never tell you of it. He's sincere, but shy, and he finds you fascinating. That's about the long and short of it."

Carly wondered how much of that he'd just made up, but didn't ask. Instead she asked the suspicious question that was lurking behind her eyes. "_You_ didn't send this, did you?"

"Me?" Lawley chuckled again. It was a nice enough sound. "No. For one thing, since all these flowers are dead, that changes the meanings. The only way to make any sense of them at all is to assume the sender intended the meanings to be the same as if they were alive. Why do you ask?"

Carly bushed again, but forged ahead. Just as she did in everything. "You're always asking me out for coffee –"

"Coffee. Check." Lawley held up his cup. "We can move on to bigger things now."

"See?" Carly asked in exasperation, hopping down from the table and moving into the living room. "You're always making covert passes at me."

The look on her guest's face said that he'd better get to work if his passes were merely covert, but he kept that observation to himself. "I take it you're ready to get to work."

"The sooner we do, the sooner you can leave." Carly smiled sweetly, although she knew he'd take the words the way she'd meant them.

"You're so mean to me," Lawley muttered, but he opened his file and pulled out a pen. "Can you give me any further insight into why Rainey might have been trying to take down his mirror?"

* * *

Carly found herself back at work on Monday morning feeling inexplicably optimistic. She'd made it through her weekly staff meeting with minimal amounts of acerbity, had made progress with a patient she was treating for agoraphobia, and was now working her way through a stack of phone messages. Currently she was on the phone with Mrs. Rainey.

"I'm not trying to tell you what you should do, Amy. You can come visit, or you can not come visit. It's not my place to say. What I can say is that a visit from you would not be harmful. Whether it'd be beneficial or not is a mystery. I've only just managed to get a relatively good read on Mort's behavior."

"I wish you'd make the decision for me," Amy fretted on the other side of the phone. "I've been putting off setting a wedding date, you know. It's driving Ted nuts. But I can't help but feel that I don't really have a right to get married unless Mort knows what's going on." She sighed; Carly could practically feel the other woman's indecision, even over the phone. "It just seems so very wrong. I went behind his back once, and had a hand in causing this mess. To go behind his back again . . ."

She fell silent, imagining the scenario. She and Ted got married. Mort finally snapped out of his voluntary seclusion. Would hearing that the woman he hadn't wanted to divorce was married push him back into his shell? _Why is this so hard? I never wanted to hurt him._ And if she decided to go visit him, would it help her in knowing her own mind when it came to setting a wedding date? Ted was getting impatient, and she couldn't blame him. He always wanted to have things right up front. He was always the one with the plan. He was the one who'd nagged her about telling Mort about their relationship. To ask for the divorce. He was very different than in her that respect.

"No. I don't think I'll come down today."

Carly closed her eyes and counted to ten. It was true that she was in a good mood, but for some reason, Amy was trying it. There was just something about the way that she was putting things off that got to her. _I'm one to speak. Look how I treat my own family._ But at least she didn't make a pretense that she was doing anything but stalling.

"May I make a suggestion, Amy?"

"Please." The feeling of relief made it through the line just as easily as the indecision had.

"I suggest that you come down. Just because you come to see him doesn't mean you have to be in the same room with him. I think that actually _seeing_ the progress he's made will help take a load off your mind."

"That sounds a bit selfish."

Carly shrugged and made a noncommittal noise. "A lot of psychiatry is selfish in some way. We can't make anyone change. They have to be selfish enough to want to." Silence. "Today would be a good day to visit. Mort's been emotionally stable for several days. It would do you good to see him at his best."

Again there was silence, but Amy was the one to break it this time. "Alright. I should arrive some time after noon."

"Sounds good. I'll see you this afternoon."

Carly hung up and stretched in her seat, yawning. A veritable heat wave had moved in Saturday evening. For this part of Maine in mid-May, that meant highs in the mid-fifties. It felt warmer in the sun.

She glanced at the clock – it was late enough in the day to justify a break. She'd wander outside and find Todd. The old man was back on duty, but he was noticeably quieter than he'd been before Steve's death.

Just as Carly was climbing out of her chair, Toby came rushing to the entrance of the staff room. "Doc!" he panted. "You gotta come see this."

* * *

They were coming from all around him now. They? Was it "they" or merely "it?" He couldn't tell. The surround sound was making everything but his own racing heartbeat hard to hear.

((They're coming for you, they or it would whisper. You've been bad. See how you're locked up?))

_No_. He wasn't locked up. He could leave if he wanted. Mort glanced at the door. It wasn't locked . . . was it? _No_, he shook his head, no, he wasn't trapped. That doctor was always making him leave –

((Practice for the long walk, my friend.)))

Mort wandered in circles around his room, peering under table, bed, clothes in his closet each time he passed them. _Nothing_. _Nothing_ _anywhere_. But what if something was there next time?

The pacing and circling continued.

((You've been bad. Very bad. And you know it. It's why you stay awake at night. You know what you'll see.))

_True_. So very true. The dull terror of what he might see himself do in his dreams kept Mort awake until his body threw him into a mindless, dreamless sleep.

((You're a dead man.))

_Where are you, where are you, where are you?_

((Go look in the mirror.))

With more than a hint of trepidation, Mort walked towards the bathroom, but he couldn't go in. Instead, he poked his head around the corner. The only thing in the mirror was his own wild yet blank face.

((That's me.))

_No! Liar!_ Twirling around, Mort resumed his circuits around the room. _Just like a goldfish._

((Goldfish go belly up.)) Now that he was directly talking back, the voice turned malicious. As if it hadn't wanted to waste the energy if he wasn't going to play along.

_Shut the hell up._

((Puff puff, I'm the big bad wolf. Wanna light?))

_I don't smoke._

((Yes you do.))

_No I don't. I gave it up._

((Did you give up killing people too?))

_Never did._

((You never gave it up?))

_Never killed anyone!_ Mort growled. _Never . . . I wouldn't. I won't. I can't._

((You would, you will, you can.))

_Why should I listen to you? You're not even real._

((Real enough to have a real effect on you. Or do you always wander around like Bo Peep without her sheep?)) Mort picked up the biggest book on his shelf and dropped it on the floor, just to hear the noise. ((Oh, going to scare me away with loud sounds now? I don't think so.))

_You can't think. You're not real._ He picked up another book, held it above his head, and let it go. It made a louder sound. A sound that came from just one place.

((You think therefore I am.))

_I don't sleep therefore you are._ Was that it? What he merely having a mental meltdown? That didn't seem too bad.

((Not too bad at all. Just on the same level as a nuclear meltdown.))

_Chernobyl__'s growing back._

((You're more destructive than that. You ruin everything.)) Cruelly, the sight and sound of Amy's screams and pleading eyes was shoved to the forefront of his mental ticker tape. ((Look at that. That's going to leave a scar that Mederma won't help.))

_Shut up!!!_ The book slammed into the wall this time, causing the last two books to fall off their shelf.

((Make me.))

Ah-ha! He could place the voice this time! It came from behind the window shade. Like a maniac he ran across the room and tore down the window shade to reveal . . .

Through his own reflection, Mort was entranced by the site of a garden coming to life.

* * *

"I found him like this when I came into the room," Toby said quietly. Carly stood at his side, and they both stood in the open doorway to Rainey's room. Their patient stood with his back to them, seemingly trapped by the sight of the outdoors.

"Just like this?" Carly asked softly, taking note of the pile of books on the floor to her right and the tipped over table to her left.

"He hasn't moved a muscle," Toby confirmed.

The pair stood in the doorway for several minutes, simply observing their patient. Carly wanted all the insight she could get before she risked talking to Rainey. If she had to hazard a guess by the state of his room alone, she'd say that he'd had some kind of panic attack. She didn't think that he'd even meant to end up in front of an open window. And if that was the case, then that would explain why he was so stock still. It'd also go a long way in supporting her diagnoses of psychotic depression; patients suffering from that often stood still – or laid still, or sat still, etc. – for long periods of time.

When she deemed that enough time had passed, Carly instructed Toby to quietly go through the room. Not to clean it – if Mort turned around and his room was clean when he didn't remember it being that way, it could set off another attack – but to look for anything he may have written during the frenzy he'd destroyed his room in. Again, it was a search for information.

After several minutes of searching though, they had turned up a grand total of bupkis. Carly motioned for Toby to stand back, but to be ready. She was going to try to talk to Mort.

Her approach was slow and smooth. She didn't want to just _appear_ next to him; she wanted him to be aware of her approach, but didn't exactly want to draw his attention to her. Not yet.

_One…two…three…four…_ Silently, Carly counted to a hundred and fifty. In her experience, that was long enough for the subconscious to become aware of the surroundings. _So hopefully,_ she thought as she reached out to touch his arm, _he's not about to jump out of his skin._

For all her care and concern, Mort's reaction was almost disappointed. He didn't even seem to notice that she was there, or that she'd just touched him.

_If he wants to play hardball, I can play hardball,_ she thought. There was a snort from Toby as she pursed her hips and narrowed her eyes. Carly ignored him, but relaxed her face anyway. It wouldn't do for Rainey to think she was upset with him, because she wasn't. She just wanted to get his attention.

"Mort," she called quietly. "Mort, what are you looking at?" He didn't answer, didn't shrug, didn't acknowledge her in any way. Glancing at his face, Carly turned her gaze to the window as well, taking in the buzz of activity below her. Funny, she'd never noticed that Rainey's room looked out on the patient's garden.

"How are you feeling?" Carly unobtrusively slipped her fingers around his wrist to measure his pulse; it was quick, but not racing. His skin was cool, but not clammy. _Alright, he's not in shock. One theory down, who knows how many to go._ She let him go.

"Mort, what do you see outside. Can you tell me?" Actually getting an answer was lower on her list of priorities now, so she was pleasantly surprised when Mort twitched his head in her direction. The move could have been caused by a hundred different things, but he was moving. He was conscious of _something_.

* * *

((I don't know if you've noticed, but your little nurse is _hot_.))

_Doctor. Not a nurse. Doctor._

((Wow . . . I didn't know you'd even noticed her. What's her name?))

The voice was coming from _outside._ The urge to go find it was strong . . . but so was the urge to stay in the safety of the indoors.

((Wimp.))

"Mort . . . ?"

Why was the woman talking like that? It annoyed him when Amy talked like that. She wasn't Amy.

((We've confirmed that. What's her name?)) Mort's eyes darted back and forth and his head twitch as he thought that perhaps – _perhaps_ – he'd seen something out of the corner of his eye. But there was nothing, and the voice didn't – wouldn't – shut up.

((I don't know who's more pathetic. You, or her. Maybe I'll tell her you're not home. You'd like that, wouldn't you?))

Something – had it looked like a man? – slammed into the window.

Mort stumbled back; as he fell, he dragged the doctor with him. He recovered himself much before anyone else could though, and was out of the room, running down the hall before he knew what he was doing.

He was going to find the voice, he realized.

And when he did, he was going to kill it.

* * *

Carly sat on her ass in dumbfounded shock as Mort Rainey, a man she'd never seen move at any pace faster than a slow shuffle, tore out of his room. Before she could move past amazement at what she was seeing, Toby hauled her to her feet and then they were both running down the hall after their patient. Absently, Carly was thankful for the sneakers on her feet even as she wished that Mort had been wearing his slippers when he'd left his room. It'd make it easier to catch him.

_It's a good thing I go to the gym,_ she thought wryly as she waved off a security guard who was moving in to intercept Rainey. After so many months of laying and sitting around, the other man wasn't in any kind of shape to outrun her, not to mention Toby. No, she wanted to see the final product of what was developing. Why did Mort want to go outside? What was it about that bit of falling hardware from his mangled shades that had caused him to do this? Had it been the crash of that metal rod, or was it simply the impetus that was making him act on a desire to be outdoors? Carly wanted answers to those questions.

Unfortunately, Rainey wasn't so well acquainted to the ward that he knew how to get outside. His sprint led him to a dead end in a corridor without windows. He stopped and started looking around, his eyes and hair wild.

They slowed a dozen or so yards from them. Carly had an absurd vision of her and Toby as horse wranglers trying to urge a particularly spooked animal.

"It's alright, Mort," she tried to soothe, slowly coming towards him. "There's nothing to be scared of. Is that what happened? Did the loud noise scare you? Or do you want to go out? We'll go outside. Is that what you want? To go outside?" She was close enough to touch him, and touch him she did. It was just a soft brush of her fingers against his arm like she'd done not so many minutes ago, but this time it produced results. Mort fixed her with a penetrating gaze that made her freeze.

_He's on the edge of . . . of . . ._ She wasn't sure what the word was, but she knew she recognized the emotion.

"Outside?" Her voice was barely more than a whisper.

"Umph . . ." The sound was breathy, rough and drawn-out with a hissy consonant that she wasn't quite able to identify. But that's not what she cared about.

He'd made a noise.

He'd . . . vocalized himself.

_This_ was what she was working for.

"Outside?" she asked again, wanting to acknowledge and reward his effort in some way.

Mort ran his fingers through his hair several times, seemingly impatient and confused, but he pushed past her, quickly walking down the hall.

"Just think of what would have happened if he'd tried to go out a fire escape," Toby murmured to her as she joined him. Carly threw him a bemused look as the moved up to flank Rainey. Apparently he did was to go outside.

* * *

"It was amazing, Ted!" Amy Rainey enthused as her fiancé passed her the peas across the dinner table. Due to her visit to Briar Ridge, she'd gotten home late and instead of cooking, Ted had ordered out from Boston Market. "I got there, and an orderly took me behind the building . . . and there he was! _Outside._"

"So you've said, Amy." If Ted sounded somewhat less enthusiastic than she did, Amy didn't notice. She was too caught up by what she'd seen.

"You ought to see the gardens they've got behind that hideous building. They're enormous. And there's theme gardens, and fountains, and paths, and a artificial lake . . ." She shook her head in wonder. "Dr. Beckham told me that the one of the smaller gardens is tended entirely by patients. And there was Mort, in the midst of it all. I didn't think I'd ever see him like that again. She said that maybe she could get Mort to take an interest in it."

"How nice." Ted's voice was dry. Amy ignored him.

"Not that he was back to normal." She shook her head, buttered a biscuit, and never noticed that she was dominating the conversation. "He seemed so _aware_ of what was going on around him, but I don't think he even once noticed _me_."

"The last time he noticed you, he tried to put a screwdriver through you," her lover muttered.

She glared at him. "Dr. Beckham thinks that was an isolated event. She said that now that she's had time to think things over, that Mort has probably suffered from some form of depression for most of his adult life, and that it has probably turned into psychotic depression –"

"How comforting."

Amy glared at him across the table this time. "Which means that he was probably having a hallucination and therefore didn't know what he was doing. She also said –"

"I don't care what she said, Amy. The man is dangerous. How can you take her seriously when she coddles criminals for a living?"

"What is wrong with you tonight?" Amy asked in exasperation. "I have all this good news, and –"

"And you're treating this woman like she's some kind of miracle worker. She's not. She's got a hundred cabinets full of drugs to produce the results she wants. She could make him swear that he's a pink hippo of that's what she wanted."

"You're wrong," Amy said heatedly. "Mort's on less medications now than he was when that other doctor was taking care of him."

"So she's found a better combination. That doesn't mean anything, Amy. He's still dangerous and I don't want you around him. Especially not where he's not under control."

"And what would you call '_under control_,' Ted? Having Mort strapped to a hospital bed, drugged completely out of his mind? Or do you prefer lobotomies? They'd ever so much more cost effective."

"I can't believe –"

"_I_ can't believe we're having this conversation." Throwing her napkin down, Amy got up from the table. "I have some invoices to fill. I'll eat later."

Ted watched Amy storm off, an unreadable look in his eyes. Then he sighed, and picked up the dishes. Obviously Amy wasn't going to clean up tonight.

* * *

**Author's Thanks: **Thank you to everyone who's reading this now. I'm glad that you didn't give up on me. Thanks to everyone who reviewed 'Post Script' and 'Days' and included a short message about how I needed to get my butt in gear on 'FS.' This chapter is dedicated to all of you, otherwise I never would have felt guilty enough to wrestle with the plot line.

My individual thanks go to deep breath . . . **Stahlfan125** (I still wonder if Toby and Mort really tied in that game, or if Toby gave up. :P He's not telling.); **Dawnie****-7** (I love the cartoons/TV shows/movies where someone asks for a volunteer for something particularly dangerous, and the guy that "volunteers" is the guy who wasn't paying enough attention to know that everyone behind/beside him took a step back. ); **A** **Cheerful** **Reader** (I don't know a lot about psych wards, but I know some people who worked in the special ed. class in high school, and they said _everyone_ in there had a schedule, whether they needed it or not.); **LadySparrowJack** (No more burrowing for Mort. He's more fun to write when he's running around and doing crazy things. I'm glad you liked my little OUATIM duo there.); **Savvy** **TBird** (Details are our friends, and Mort is hot. :P ); **CaptainJackSparrowsGirl** (If you were feeling deprived before, I can only imagine how you're feeling now. :P); **Lynx** (No, the speech was supposed to make people laugh. I certainly enjoyed it. Maybe we're both evil. . I don't like forward progress. It's too much like cutting a sandwich down the middle. I'm a diagonal girl. :P Double story lines are fun for no other reason that I can switch back and forth between them when I start to get bored. Isn't that horrible?); **normal** **human** **being** (I always have to stop 'there,' yes. I like cliffhangers. Cliffhangers are our friends. Don't worry about Michael. He's going to make an appearance in the next chapter. Crowbars aren't allowed until I say they are.); **butterflywings32** (I hate it when people update right before they go to bed, so you don't find out about it until the next morning when you wake up…unless you live like in England or something. thinks about that ); **Depp**-**Luver49** (I don't usually let readers into my fics. It's happened exactly twice, I think, and both in the same chapter of 'More Than Eyes.'); **Nithke** (A self-sustaining alternate universe? I'm obviously watching _way_ too much Star Trek because my mind wants to turn that into the punch line of a joke involving self-sealing stembolts and alternate universes. scratches head Lawley is hot. I should post the little graphic I made for this fic. I'll do that in my bio. Kettle Korn is good. Can I have some?); **Blue** **Autumn** **Sky** (That's some good imagery of Mort and his non-existent yet annoyingly chatterish double. I must say that that did inspire a bit of this chapter.); **HumiliatedGrape** (Law and Order is very good. Great show. You're right, Mort will come around eventually – or is it stop going around? – and it will be a fight. I like fights. :P ); **BraveSymbol** (Was there enough frenzified Mort in this chapter, SS? . And if you're missing Lawley, than I think I'm doing a good job of things.); **pandagal** (Mort is kinda like a turtle, and not the good, caramel and chocolate kind. :P Mort's a writer at heart, which is why I've got him writing so much. It fascinates me for some reason. That, and I think I may be heavily influenced by Garth Nix's Lirael. She did a lot of writing too.); **Pirate** **Rhi** (I haven't updated in awhile, but I think you're still ahead – behind? – in lag between reviews. As in it takes me longer to update than it does you to review. I think that's what I mean at least. I'm very glad that everyone is remaining in character. What's worst for me when reading a fic is to have someone be consistently in character for a few chapters, and then they suddenly do something inexplicable. That or the entire story progresses with everyone being just a tiny bit out of character.); **SparrowLover** (Inner demons are fun. Lots and lots of fun. I give all my characters demons.); **Merrie** (How could Mort's angel do anything but write him very well? :P And I don't think you're one to nag about quick updates, missy. .); **CleopatraVII** (The story is going very…very…very…slooooowly. sigh But I hope it's still enjoyable and a nice, high quality fic. nods); **Spoofmaster** (Ooo…I like being on author alerts. :P I hope things are still nice and spiffy.); **Isabela** **Pucini** (Plagiarism is all well and good until someone gets their eyes poked out…oops, wrong 'verse. :P Tragedy…drama…what are these things? Certainly I don't write anything but enjoyable fluff. :P I like drama. It keeps things interesting…as long as I don't have to be involved.); **Kitty** **Kisser** (I hope you caught my reference to you up above. points to the beginning of the thanks I hope this chapter satisfied you for the time being.); **Wayward** **Slinky** (I think I prefer it when it takes people a long time to catch up. Then they don't notice how long I'm going between updates. . I think Mort would dislike Carly – she's making him do stuff he doesn't want to do. Kinda like a parent. We dislike them at times, but not really.); **Euterpe** (Thank you so much for your kind complements. And thank you for saying that Tess pissed you now and then. When I caught myself beginning to get offended, I was able to laugh at myself. . I can see how she can get on some people's nerves. She just doesn't get on mine because she's my baby. :P Thanks for the promise of constructive criticism. It's always appreciated.); **JohnnyDEPPmaniac** (I certainly hope you didn't need this story to survive, 'cause then you'd be dead by now.); **Logical** **Ghost** (There's not a lot of variety in the female-OC-meets-Mort category, now is there? And what would Mort be about the legion of little things that push him over the edge? Mort actually _was_ reading over Carly's shoulder when she wrote her little short story, but he expanded on it.)

**Author's Note 2: **I added links to story graphics in my bio section here on


	15. Chapter Fourteen

**Author's Note: feel free to smack me with a rolled up newspaper. Yes, I know I'm horrible. No, you don't really need to tell me. My only excuse is that I've possibly gotten in over my head, but sooner or later, I _am_ going to finished. For now, enjoy the chapter.**

* * *

Mort couldn't sleep. It wasn't so much a reversal from not _wanting_ to sleep; from when he wanted to escape dreams that could by more than dreams and nightmares that might have been memories. Rather it was that this new sleeplessness was a mirror. Now it was his waking thoughts he wanted to elude, dreams and memories be damned.

Yet night after night, he sat sleepless on his bed, eyes staring straight ahead. His mind simply wouldn't shut down. He supposed it didn't help that "The Window" – as he had taken to calling it – was still uncovered. Tantalizing glimpses of starry skies occasionally blotted by cloud did nothing to send sleep either. He was more aware of the hours passing. More hours.

He wondered . . .

It didn't matter _what_ he wondered. It was bad enough that he did wonder without then turning and giving a name to the shapeless, nebulous thoughts that plagued him. He didn't want to know himself that well.

Carly was well aware of her patient's insomnia. If the ward nurse hadn't told her, then the dark bruise-like shadows under his eyes would have given him away.

_Not that he's ever slept a lot,_ Carly often found herself thinking on more than one occasion. But he'd never looked so sickly before. In what she thought was deliberate perversity on his part, he was looking worse now that he was getting sunlight, fresh air, and exercise than he had when they'd first met.

_Well, maybe not when we **first** met,_ she amended one day as she went over Mort's chart. It was evening and she should be on her way home, but instead she was thinking about the unwashed and wild-haired patient she'd encountered nearly four months ago. But even as disheveled and unhealthy as he'd been from a physical and psychological standpoint, she wasn't sure if he was much healthier now. Sure, he had the illusion of a sun kissed complexion, but his eyes. . . . There was a fierce, nearly oppressive awareness in his eyes. It was an interesting theory, the possibility that Rainey was being smothered by his own mind.

More than ever, Carly wished she had the ability to pull back Mort's skull and peer inside, like a mechanic into a rundown car –

"Dr. Beckham?"

Carly looked up, suddenly aware of how tightly she'd been wrapped in her thoughts. "Yes?"

"Mr. Rainey still isn't eating his vegetables, doctor."

She frowned and looked over the tray the nurse held. "Not even salad?" Her glance told her that the answer was a firm "no." Carly sighed. "I understand not wanting to eat overcooked green beans, not to mention the peas and carrots . . ." The nurse just looked at her. "Oh alright. If he's just not going to eat any vegetables at all, then give him plenty of fruits. We don't want him to get constipated." _Oh lord, I sound like my mother._

Fortunately such talk was common in the workplace, so Carly was spared further embarrassment.

The nurse left when she noticed that the doctor was once again absorbed by her thoughts. Carly noticed that the woman nodded a demure "Yes doctor," but otherwise ignored her surroundings as she made a note on Rainey's chart indicating that some dietary supplements should be added to his daily round of pills. As she hung the chart back on its hook by Rainey's door, she glanced in through the window.

As per usual, her patient was sitting on his bed, back to the wall. His blankets were nested around him. When she saw how his eyes were blankly focused on the opposite wall, she sighed. If this didn't let up soon, she was going to add a sleep aid to his regimen. And she didn't want to have to do that. It'd be like admitting defeat, and she wasn't about to let that happen.

* * *

It had been a long day. While Carly took part of the blame for that since it'd been her decision to stay so late, it was the spate of meetings that she'd had to attend that took the most out of her. She felt like the organic pulp from an orange that was thrown away after being run through a juicer. And it was only Tuesday.

All the department heads were stressing the importance of the upcoming state review. _As if we didn't already know how important all this is for funding and grants,_ her irritated thoughts groused as she let herself in her front door. It was dark outside, and darker inside. _And now I have to cook dinner._ The thought was nearly unbearable. _But first, I'm going to change my clothes. For the love of god, why didn't I leave a light on this morning?_

She emerged from her bedroom some minutes later, Bast following close on her heels. Hitting light switches as she went, Carly made her way into the kitchen. _Tonight is definitely a TV dinner night._ But to her dismay, the freezer was empty of everything but a few ice cubes and a bag of last year's blackberries. In disgust, she yanked them the frostbitten berries out and threw them into the garbage. _Fine, leftovers it is._ However, the fridge was just as empty as the freezer. As was the pantry. And the cupboards.

"How did I manage to eat everything without noticing?" she asked sourly as she opened the last can of cat food. She was going to have to get groceries. The thought made her groan. _I'll take off early tomorrow and get them. Tonight I'll order pizza._

She cleaned as she waited for her dinner to arrive – lamentably, without a side of Budweiser. For a moment she wished for more company than her cat; an image of Lawley flashed though her mind too quickly too be stopped.

Rolling her eyes, Carly shook her head. "I'm not that desperate."

_Yet._

* * *

"Don't tempt me," Carly warned as Todd came towards her with a basket of blueberries. "You know I'm allergic but you still try this ever year. You're not going to wear me down. I'm too vain to want to have you come to work while covered with hives and other unsightly splotches."

Todd laughed at her. Carly had designed her little tirade just so he would do that. He was just starting to regain his old humor after Steve's "accident." Carly missed his smiles and good-natured ribbing.

"Carly-girl, you need to start living it up. You don't want to be a dull old woman before your time, do you?"

"I'm not dull. I'm staid. Reliable."

"You live with a cat."

She pretended to look offended. "I fail to see how that relates to anything. What's the point you're trying to make?"

Todd just shook his head. "If you're not going to take any blueberries, then what are you out here for?"

"Who says I didn't come out to visit you, old man?" Carly fell into step beside Todd. It was a sunny day and she'd come prepared with her sunglasses. The grass had been recently mowed, and what clippings had been left behind released a fresh scent into the air. If she'd been a school teacher, she would have been tempted to take her students outside for lessons. As it was, she took pleasure in glancing down at the patient's garden; there were a score of people hunched down between the rows, all of them working industriously.

" – good for you to get outside." Carly forcibly turned her mind back to the conversation at hand. "All that artificial air inside that building isn't good for anyone. Bad for the constitution."

"You're not going to start talking about the importance of moral fiber, are you? Because you're sounding remarkably like my grandfather." Carly faked a shudder. "How are things, Todd?"

The gardener launched into a thorough discussion of rain, wind, cloud, soil conditions, and sun as they strolled across the grounds. Carly could feel her hair heating up from the strength of the sun. It made her pleasantly self-satisfied, as if she was no longer a schoolmarm but a student playing hooky.

"If you hadn't come out for a visit, I would have come to fetch you. You're too pale by far."

"Hmm?" Carly took a moment to process what had just been said to her, and then she laughed. "I may be pale, but I'm not breaking out in freckles either. It's easier to avoid the sun and keep my sin wrinkle-free than to get rid of freckles. Trust me; lemon juice doesn't do diddly-squat. Are you going to lug those around forever, old man?"

"Whippersnapper," Todd muttered under his breath. He called an underling over and issued instructions for their disposal. In this case, they were to be taken to the kitchens to be made into muffins and cobbler.

"Now, what are you really doing here?" Todd asked as they started walking again. "Taking a late lunch?"

Carly smiled ruefully. "No. I thought I'd come down to check on one of my patients." Together they changed their course until they were walking down the gentle slope to where the more practical gardens were plotted. "Have you meet Mr. Rainey?"

Todd shrugged. "Don't know if I'd call it that. The young man you've got helping you made an introduction but I might as well have not been there. Your Mr. Rainey just stared right through me."

Carly wasn't surprised. "Don't worry. He treats everyone that way."

"Even you?" Todd glanced at her slyly. "A pretty young thing like you is unilaterally ignored?"

A laugh escaped her. "As if it matters. Even if that was the reason he noticed me, nothing would come of it. There's rules against that kind of thing."

"But he _does_ notice you."

She shrugged. "I cause too much annoyance for him to _not_ notice me. I'm a force of change in his life. Usually _unwanted_ change. I've started to believe that Mr. Rainey doesn't trust me."

"And why do you say that?"

"Because every now and then I'll turn around and find him watching me like a man watches a rabid bulldog." Her grin turned ruthless. "I'm stubborn enough for it."

"You like your challenges."

"This from the man who –"

"Hey, Doc!"

Carly sighed when Toby interrupted before she could make her point; a point involving the foolishness of combining tropical plants with Maine winters. Unless a gardener took pains, even roses could be an annual at this latitude.

"Hello, Toby. How's our patient?" She glance around without seeing Mort anywhere. "More importantly, _where's _our patient?"

"Oh, I tried to get him into the vegetable garden, but he just kinda stopped in his tracks."

"Really." Carly frowned and she was no longer the person who wandered outside for the pleasure of it. She was now a doctor challenged with a new facet of an existing problem.

_What is it about vegetables that so discomposes him? I suppose it could simply be a quirk, but it's unusual for idiosyncrasies to simply pop up. I'll have to ask about pre-existing precedents for - _

"Earth to Dr. Beckham . . . Are you with us, Doc?"

Carly blinked and looked up into Toby's grinning face. "Huh?" _Oh, that was intelligent . . ._

"Mort? Remember him? You wanted to know where he is?"

"Is he back at the hospital?" Carly supposed she could have missed him. She _had_ been absorbed in her conversation with Todd –

"If you'd been listening the first time I told you, then you would know that I ever so kindly escorted our Mr. Rainey to the rock garden where he's pulling weeds under the benevolent eye of two gardeners and a nurse."

"The rock garden?"

"He wasn't so hot on being around a heap –"

"A heap?"

Toby ignored her, other than to glare at her for her very real amusement. " – a heap of people."

"Well, as long as he's supervised . . . Did you try to talk to him about why he didn't want to work in the vegetable gardens?"

Toby shook his head. "You know how he is. He does the best impression of a brick wall that I've ever seen. Words just bounce off him."

"You just don't try had enough." _Although that would be my job, not his._ "Alright, where in the rock garden is he?"

"I left him between the birch and the Japanese maple."

"Ha-ha." That included most of the trees in that part of the grounds. "Can you perhaps be a bit more specific?"

"He's near that wishing well. And if he's moved on, just look for a group of suspicious gardeners." Toby stretched and turned around as if to leave.

"Where are you going?" Carly asked idly. "I can handle Rainey on my own, but I do like to have backup. For the moral support."

"You're going to have to do without me. I'm taking my break. I need the caffeine support." He winked. "I'll meet you back inside."

"Alright." Carly waved to him, and to Todd who had moved off to work among the patients tending the flowerbeds. She saw Michael walking away with a wheelbarrow loaded with weeds that were destined for either a burn pile or a compost heap. It was good to see him working, John Deere hat on his head as always.

Shaking her head, Carly forced herself to get back to work.

The path she took was lined on either side with brick pavers, and they continued beside her when grass gave way to shale in shades of grey, tan, and a yellowy-white that was just a bit darker than ivory. A few dozen yards into the rock garden, the path turned to dirt – completely weed free, of course.

As if pleasantly meandered, the path led her past benches and goldfish ponds, gazing balls and stone statues. Except for a few patients – day patients by the look of their clothing – the garden was rather deserted. This wasn't one of the more popular botanical hangouts; those in need of quiet solitude were the only ones who frequented it. Carly could see why a place like this would appeal to Mort.

When she found him, he was right where Toby had said he would be. He was pulling weeds with such single-minded concentration that he didn't notice her approach. Carly dismissed his silent observers with a few nods, and then went to sit on the edge of the wishing well. The water feature wasn't very well named, seeing as how it was nearly seven feet across, but there were a copious amount of coins on the bottom, and not a few buttons, paperclips, and the occasional pebble.

Because his back was to her and because she didn't want to startle him, Carly bided her time until Mort stood to move on to the next tree before addressing him.

"Hello, Mort. It's a beautiful day, isn't it?" Mort just stood by the flowering dogwood he'd been weeding around and watched her. Carly had the passing fancy that he was trying to figure out why she kept trying to initiate conversation with him; as if he was the doctor and she the patient with abnormal behaviors.

"How did you sleep last night?" His gaze slid away guiltily. "Not well, hmm? Well, don't worry. If this insomnia doesn't clear up soon, I'll give you something to help you sleep. Would you like that?" A noncommittal shrug. "If you decide you don't, we'll find another way to help you sleep. Perhaps you just need to work more. Do you like pulling weeds? You did a very good job on this bit." If she thought the praise would get him to relax, she was wrong.

"Do you want to go for a walk? I bet kneeling over like that isn't very comfortable. I know that it would make me stiff." Carly stood. "How about we return those tools to their shed?" She went back to the path. "Are you going to come with me, Mort, or do you want to do something else?"

Rainey bestowed his deer-in-the-headlights look upon her before his brows furrowed and his mouth turned down. Carly tucked away her own surprise at this display and waited to see what he would do next. She wasn't disappointed when he turned on his heel and walked in the opposite direction than the one she'd indicated. She was sure that he meant to communicate a sense of self-righteous indignation, but she had to hide a grin. He looked like Bast when she'd been refused food.

Needless to say, Carly followed after him at a distance.

The reason for her unconcern, she thought as she strolled in Rainey's wake, was that as long as he stayed on the path, Mort would end up back at the center. And this display of self-determination was too intriguing – and encouraging, she'd admit it – to squash. It would be much better to observe.

He led her a merry chase. _Though I'm not sure "chase" is the right word,_ she thought as they once again came in sight of the outpatient wing and Mort once again took a turn that would lead them away from the building. _With the word "chase," speed is implied._

"Where are you trying to go, Mort?" she called softly. "Are you looking for something?"

Her voice must have surprised him, because when he turned around, his eyes were wide behind his glasses. Carly glanced at his hands; his knuckles were white.

"I see," she said slowly as she lifted her eyes to his face.

Mort, uncomfortably aware that she probably saw far more than he wanted her to, spun around on his heel and walked away again. Haste made his steps unsteady. Carly watched him go, then continued to follow him. He could run, but it was her job to make sure he didn't get lost. Physically _or_ metaphorically.

Their game continued for another twenty minutes before being interrupted.

"Doctor . . . Dr. Beckham. How . . . how are you today?"

Carly stopped, taking note that Mort stopped as well, though he didn't turn around. "Hello, Michael. I'm doing very well today. How are you? I saw you working earlier." _I'll leave him to himself for a bit. See how he reacts._

"I . . . I am happy. It . . . it is sunny today. The . . . the plants like the sun and . . . and so do I."

Carly smiled. "Are the plants as happy as you?"

"I . . . I hope so. They . . . they're growing."

"I now. Todd accosted me with an entire bushel basket of blueberries." It was an exaggeration, but Carly used it anyway.

Michael was unamused. "You . . . you're allergic to blueberries. You . . . you told me. They . . . they make you sick. Mister . . . Mr. Graham shouldn't have done that. It's . . . it's not very nice."

If Carly was surprised that he remembered her allergy, she didn't let it show on her face. She knew ho odd bits of information could be permanently filed away in the brain. For example, she could still remember her high school locker combination. But that was neither here nor there; the very real distress on Michael's face was. If he wasn't reassured, he'd be belligerent towards Todd for the imagined slight, and the head gardener would never know why.

"Michael, I didn't eat any. Mr. Graham was just teasing me. He knows I'm allergic to blueberries. He didn't really want me to eat any."

"He . . . he didn't?"

"No." Carly noticed that Rainey was shuffling his feet. "He was just being funny." It appeared as if he wanted to move, but something was holding him back.

"Oh . . . oh, alright. I . . . I guess that's okay then. I . . . I would be sand if you got sick."

"So would I." Mindful of Mort's agitation, Carly decided to do something that could spur him into action. What kind of action she wasn't sure, but it'd get him to do something. "Michael, would you like to meet one of my patients?" She saw Rainey stiffen, but he didn't walk away as she'd half suspected he would.

"A . . . a patient?" Michael didn't look happy to hear that news, but he didn't make an excuse to leave either.

"Yes," Carly said gently. "Another person I'm trying to help."

"Like . . . like you helped me?"

"Exactly like how I helped you." She noticed that Michael still looked mulish; Rainey on the other hand turned around and stared at them impassively. _If he would only raise his chin a bit, he'd be the very image of arrogance._ "Mort, would you like to come here and meet Michael? He works in the gardens, so you might run into him now and again." Her tone was light and slightly sweet; the same tone that mothers use to persuade recalcitrant children to cooperate. She might as well have used no inflection at all though, for all the good it did her. Mort didn't move an inch and Michael looked less than welcoming.

_Why do I feel like the rope in tug-o-war?_ As much as she wanted to dismiss Rainey's behavior as normal for him, it wasn't. He usually stared through people, ignoring them entirely. That wasn't what he was doing now. At the moment, he seemed to be staring Michael down. And Michael . . . well, he'd been sweet on her for awhile and was actually responding rather well to this unexpected introduction. Now, if they would just stop looking like two mountain goats preparing to do battle.

"Well." She was going to say something more but wasn't sure what would break the tension in the air. It wouldn't be her best move to make excuses for Rainey, and it would be equally unwise to prompt Michael to say something. And it wasn't in her to make either man back down, simply because she barely understood what was going on.

It was Mort who finally broke the staring contest. His gaze shifted to her, and while it was just as unwavering as the one he'd pinned on Michael, it was . . . gentler. Needier. She didn't understand what he wanted from her until he shifted his feet a few inches, drawing away from the tableau she'd inadvertently set up.

"Are you ready to go, Mort?" she asked, wanting to make him to make some kind of reply. His gradual retreat seemed to be more unconscious than a choice, and if she couldn't get him to use words, then she wanted a hand flap or something. When he glanced over his shoulder and then back at her, when his hand twitched in her direction, she took that as her cue.

"Michael, it's been nice talking to you, but I have to get Mort back to his room now. He's been outside for a long time." Her words had more truth than she'd first suspected; unless she missed her guess, she'd been with Rainey for nearly forty-five minutes. Toby was undoubtedly wondering where they'd gotten to.

Michael frowned, turning to look at her. He hadn't stopped examining Rainey even when she'd first addressed him. "You . . . you don't come visit me anymore."

"That's because you don't need me so much anymore," Carly said carefully, fully aware that Mort's hand had spasmed in her direction again. This time more urgently. "And it's my job to help the people who need me most. You're doing an excellent job with Mr. Graham. He notices too."

Her praise seemed to placate him, but Michael still looked at Mort suspiciously. As if he suspected Carly of liking her current patient over him. She held her breath and wondered if he was going to voice something to that effect, and if he'd get upset, but he didn't. He merely nodded.

"Will . . . will I see you later?"

Carly smiled, trying not to seem as relieved as she was. "As long as I work here, you'll definitely see me around. Good afternoon, Michael."

"Good . . . good afternoon, Dr. Beckham."

Almost before the sentiment had left his mouth, Mort strode forward and grabbed Carly's wrist in one dirt hand. She let him haul her away, although she did dig in her heels a bit to slow him down. It was a sign of how . . . upset . . . he was that he actually initiated contact with her.

She waited until Rainey's grip wasn't so firm before drawing her hand away. Mort glanced at her, but she didn't fall back and tail him like she'd been doing earlier. Carly instead kept up with him, not saying anything until he'd assured himself there'd be no rebellion from her quarter. But when he looked ahead again, she couldn't help but let a small bit of her amusement show. "You're not used to sharing me, are you?"

Mort stopped in the middle of the path and half-gaped at her. She tucked away a secret smile and kept walking.

* * *

"You should have seen them," Carly said to Leo as she signed in the next morning. "Seriously, I've never had two men fight over me before. And while I don't think either of them see me as an actual woman, it was still strange. Perhaps stranger because they were getting their dander up over a doctor." She shook her head. "If I had known what was going to happen, I might not have introduced them. But it would have been rude not to and one of the things I'm trying to do is get my patient to remember how to interact with people again."

"You sound frazzled," the secretary observed, her eyes dancing with merriment.

"Yeah, well I woke up later and drank my breakfast. What do you expect?" Carly looked up from her mailbox to find Leona looking at her with a great deal of concern. "What?"

"You drank your breakfast?"

"Coffee, Leo," Carly drawled, sounding irritated. "I didn't have time to make anything so I heated up the coffee from last night. It tasted terrible but the caffeine must have like doubled overnight. I feel like I'm about ready to pop out of my skin."

"Don't bite my head off. I was only making sure."

Carly muttered something that sounded suspiciously like, "You and my mother," but Leo only laughed.

"Fine. I know when I've been insulted. I know when I've been insulted."

"Go sit at your psychiatric booth, Lucy."

"Yeah, with the five cents I'll get from Charlie Brown, maybe I'll get a _decent_ cup of coffee." Carly glanced at the sign-in sheet. "Toby's here already?"

Leo shook her head, but not to disagree. "He got tapped for night duty. He'll be taking off early today."

"Thanks for the warning. I'll see you later."

Letting the matter slide, Carly hurried off for a meeting. She'd been to so many lately that she forgot what it was for, but that didn't keep her from being late. And it didn't keep Dr. Holshack from keeping her after.

"Rough night?" he asked, observing her from his position at the head of the table.

"No. Just long. I stayed up later reviewing some case files."

"Rainey?"

She shook her head. "At first. Some stuff happened yesterday that had me idly looking through journals. But I have other patients to be thinking about too." She rolled her eyes. "I just didn't remember until right before I usually go to bed. Had to burn the midnight oil. I'm not sure how I managed it in grad school."

"Feeling your age?"

"Feeling my caffeine dependency." Carly made a face.

"Happens to the best of us," Holshack agreed before turning the subject back to his first question. "How is Rainey doing?"

Carly raised an eyebrow. "Don't tell me I spend hours writing up reports for nothing."

"Oh, don't worry, I've been reading your reports. But there's things we don't put in reports. Gut feelings, minor suspicions, the wisdom of hindsight."

"My gut feelings say you're on a fishing trip. What is it? Are the suits downtown putting pressure on you?" Carly wasn't in the mood to hear that the DA's office was sticking it's nose in her business.

"No, I'm just chatting with you about a very difficult patient. Most doctors would be floundering by now. Most would be out of their depth."

She laughed. "Don't worry. I'm most definitely out of my depth, but I brought my lifeboat. I'm managing. I'm fumbling at times, but I think I'm doing right by my patient. And that's all that even the best can expect."

"True enough. Although since you've mentioned it, the district attorney does expect a bit more."

"Then the district attorney can come down and try his hand at it himself. And in the meantime, I'll do my job." Carly groaned as she rose from the table. "I need to move around. I think I'll collect the boys and go outside for a bit. I – "

"The boys?"

"Yeah. Rainey and Toby. Anyway, I want to work on Rainey's vegetable avoidance issues."

"Sounds stimulating."

"Actually it sounds a great deal like me talking to myself. But I do try."

Carly took her leave and went up to the second floor. Checking in at the nurse's station, she asked for Toby. However, no one there knew where he was. Sighing, Carly tried paging him but didn't get a reply. Grumbling about young men who turned off their pagers while they napped, Carly continued with her plan, albeit alone.

Her attempts to get Mort to even _look_ at the vegetable garden were a dismal failure. There was only so much she could take of banging her head against the wall, and Rainey was being even less cooperative than usual. She could only assume it had something to do with the day before, but without confirmation, there wasn't much she could do.

Resigned that there wasn't much she was actually going to get accomplished today, she walked Mort to the rock garden and promised to be back for him in a bit. At the very least she was going to work the kinks out of her shoulders, and a walk by the lake sounded very nearly divine.

Leaving the path and all human company behind, Carly made her way to the lake. It was another sunny day and the lake threw mirror-bright reflections back into her eyes. She supposed that was why she at first mistook the splotch she saw as something that had been washed up by the previous night's heavy winds. But as she grew curious and walked closer, her heart stuttered.

That was no mass of water weed.

It was Toby.

And he looked convincingly dead.

She screamed.

* * *

**Author's Thanks: **I have so many thanks for all my loyal readers, reviewers, and the people who nag me into finishing the chapter. Here they are . . . **Lynx** (Lawley is fun to write, especially when he's pushing the boundaries of Carly's temper. He's a bit of a jerk at times, but only because he's so persistent. He may need to work on that. And I can tell you're getting how I feel about Amy. She cares about Mort, yet she cheated on him. I like playing her both ways. And it hasn't been three months. Almost, but not quite.); **Blue Autumn Sky** (I try to update faster, but this is a complicated story to write, and I often opt to write a few chapters of my OUATIM fic instead. blushes I'm a lazy writer.); **SS** (Flowers are fun. I've always been interested in their secret meanings. I like working things like that into my stories. Groused is just too fun to use, especially as a look. Carly is great to write when she's got her hackles up. I'm glad my Mort is still up to snuff. He's a sweetie.); **Dawnie****-7** (Snoopy dances are fun, especially to watch. With Mort it seems to be one step forward, two back, so we'll see how things proceed from here. I kept wanting him to make some sort of sound, but alas, he didn't want to. And I'm keeping mum about the flowers.); **Little Fox** (Yipe? I think I'll take that as a compliment and choose to believe that I've made you speechless. Or typeless. Whichever you prefer.); **CaptainJackSparrowsGirl** (Heh. Depprivation. I funny. :P Well, I did updated a "bit" faster. Hopefully I'll update even faster next time.); **KittyKisser** (Mort is great. He's fun to tease readers with – in the best possible way of course. :D Thanks for your prodding to get me to update. It did the trick. You can have this chapter. ;P); **Savvy TBird** (Voices are fun, especially if they force an issue and create action. And action is what makes stories interesting. _Something_ has to be happening.); **butterflywings32** (_You think therefore I am._ I love a badass hallucination. They're great fun. The scene between Amy and Ted in the last chapter was really fun to write. It's logical that he'd be somewhat resentful towards her for dragging her feet, and I love that he can't hide it.); **A Cheerful Reader** (Ewww…night terrors. And if Carly wasn't interesting, then I'd have to focus on Mort. And he really doesn't say much. :P I'm not sure I'm up to writing a dialogue-less story yet. It'd be fun to try though.); **Spoofmaster** (eventuating. That's a great word.); **Nithke** (Was it only last chapter that I did the graphics thing? Wow. That seems like forever ago. I really need to update more often.); **Winged Seraph** (I hope you're still reading. I tend to lag a bit on this story because I get ideas that don't flow and then I have to tinker with them until they do. It takes time. I hope it's always worth the wait. Mort is fun, and he's really expressive, or at least the Mort that Johnny portrayed is expressive. He makes great faces. And they say that something like 60 0f language is unspoken. It's fun to try to make him talk that way.); **tinkthefairy** (Crazy boy? Poor Michael. :P Ted is fun. He's fun is a SOB kind of way, but he's fun to write, and he's a nice comparison to Amy.); **HumiliatedGrape** (How's the stress going? You mentioned it in your last review. I'm glad you're planning to get around to reading PS and Days eventually, but they'll be around for a bit so you don't have to hurry. Hope you like this chapter.); **SparrowLover** (The window was going to have to enter the story at some point, especially after I took so much trouble to cover it up. But that was rather spectacular, I do agree. I don't know what I was expecting to happen, but that wasn't it.); **DeppDRACOmaniac** (OCs can be very hard to write. I'll take it as a compliment that you're enjoying mine.); **normal human being** (You're not really that far behind. Considering how long it takes me to update, you're always ahead of me. ;D I hate it when the internet doesn't work, and you're absolutely right that this fic is coming along _slowly_. I think I like the idea that this fic is becoming more Stephen Kingish, especially since I've only ever read _Secret Garden, Secret Window._ And I watched _Salem's Lot._ But that's the extent of my knowledge on King's work. I prefer the book Mort over the movie Mort, simply because he's more detailed in the book. And it's perfectly alright to find this fic darkly funny.); **Rainey-esque** (Thank you very much for the compliments. I can only hope the update lag doesn't take away from the fic.); **Isabella Pucini** (You can call me Psnoo or NeonDaisies. I answer to both. ;) If the last chapter was full of Mort, I hope this chapter had just as much. Sometimes I wonder if I'm not focusing on the other characters too much. I'm very happy that you're finding everything believable, because a lot of this is pulled out of my butt. :D I don't think you have to worry about me neglecting my other fics. Just this one. BTW, your reviews always crack me up.); **Arenas** (Now's a very nice time for you to review. ;P And if you're sucked into this madness, perhaps you'll update _your_ madness so I can enjoy that. angel look); **bells 'n whistles** (Substance is very nice, but it takes awhile to write, and that drives me crazy. I'm starting to doubt that Mort intends to actually recover, but I'll see what I can do. I've got subplots? Yay! Go me. No wonder it takes forever to write. laughs); **CaptainCass** (The long-lost-children plot makes me shudder. Really it does. If he did have long-lost children, they'd be like, eight. And that doesn't make much sense because then they can't move in with him and become either insane writers themselves, or Mort's salvation. And at the beginning, I had to forcibly keep myself from letting Carly become one of those beautiful young women that fall madly and deeply for Mort. That's not what I want to write.); 


	16. Chapter Fifteen

**Author's Note: I'm sorry. I say that a lot. I always am though. There was a bit of a rough spot that I had a hard time getting through in this chapter. But once I got through it, I finished the rest in record time. Hopefully I won't lag this badly with the next chapter.**

**You know the drill. PS and Days next, then more FS. Author thanks at the end.**

* * *

For the next hour and twenty-seven minutes, Carly existed in a world made coldly hazy with shock. Later she would remember little of what actually happened. Oh, she was aware of someone holding her as people bustled about, and of several staff members in hospital smocks cutting Toby off from her sight, and eventually of paramedics in their blue uniforms making their hurried way down the south lawn to the lakeshore. She didn't understand why they were in such a hurry. After all, Toby was beyond help.

The arm around her shoulders tried to lead her away. "No, I want to stay," she murmured vaguely. Rationally she knew that there was nothing she could do, much less anything she _could have_ done to prevent any of this. . . But she couldn't drag herself away.

The choice was taken from her in the end, which was just as well since she otherwise would have stood rooted to the lakeshore until dark. She tried to protest but a voice somewhere near the vicinity of her ear soothed, "We need to get out of the medics' way before we irritate them. Don't worry. Toby will be taken care of. Let's get you out of the rain. There's plenty of people just waiting to fuss over you."

"Over me?" _Why?_ Why were people waiting for her?

"Yeah, over you. Don't know why, quite frankly. You're a crosspatch when you're in shock."

"Shock?" She frowned and looked up. "Lawley." Her frown deepened. "What are you doing here?"

"We had a meeting about forty-five minutes ago. Or at least we were supposed to. When you didn't show up or answer your pager, I was pointed in this direction." He tugged up the collar of his coat. "Now come on. There's nothing we can do for Toby that the medics can't do better." When he saw that she didn't comprehend him, he said slowly, "Toby's not dead."

"He's . . . not dead?" Carly turned around in time to see the paramedics lift Toby's still body onto a gurney. The lack of a body bag was a good sign that Lawley was telling the truth.

"I had a few words with the ambulance crew as they were coming down. From the information they got from your staff here, they didn't sound overly optimistic, but I'm sure the prognoses will improve when they get him to the hospital."

"The hospital. Right."

When she still showed no inclination to leave, Lawley wrapped his arm around her once again and slowly led her away. "Com'on, tough stuff. Let's get you warmed up and into fresh clothes if you have them."

"What? No." Carly was frowning again, but she didn't move away from him. She _was_ cold. He wasn't. Besides, the edges of her vision were still a little foggy and he was very solid. But that didn't mean she was going to meekly follow in his wake. "I want to go to the hospital. Leo –" She froze. "Oh my god. Leo."

"Don't worry." Lawley winced as he realized what a stupid thing that was to say. Hoping she hadn't noticed that as well, he rushed on to say, "She knows. She's got a ride with the ambulance. She'll get to the hospital in once piece."

"I'll follow in my car."

"Not in your state you won't. You'll run head-on into a telephone booth or something. But if you change into something dry, I'll drive you there." _Yes, that sounded better,_ the lawyer thought to himself._ Just the right amount of flippancy and concern._

Carly thought he was probably right, but that was no reason to listen to . . . reason. _Damn. When I put it like that, I'm being irrational._ But then Carly remembered what she'd just seen and she gave herself permission to be irrational. It was either that or rely on Lawley.

"I'm not a child. I think I can drive my own car."

"I'm sure you could. Right into a tree. I believe I said that already." Lawley stopped her and took hold of her shoulders. "I'm offering a ride. Just a ride. Really, that's not so much in the grand scheme of things. It's not exactly a marriage proposal."

Well, no, it wasn't exactly a proposal, but it was still more than she wanted to accept from him. Mainly because Carly felt that any minute now she was going to collapse like a soufflé in an earthquake. And the way his hands were traveling down his arms didn't help either.

Lawley wasn't paying any attention to her hesitation at all though, except as some strange type of case to try before a nonexistent jury. "Look at this. Your hands – though generally capable and rather graceful – are cold, clammy, and shaking like 007's favorite martini." A stiff gust of wind caused Carly to shiver; that shiver took up residence in her jaw, making Lawley frown. "Can we at least get you inside?"

On edge, Carly nodded and tried to pull away. He let her go, but tried to shrug out of his jacket. Assuming he was trying to be chivalrous, Carly glared at him. She didn't want him to be a gentleman. "Don't even think about it."

"Oh, I wasn't. No point in both of us getting soaked." The look he gave her belied his words. He was looking amused.

"Why are you still here?" Carly asked caustically. "Obviously we won't be having that meeting today."

"Business isn't everything," Lawley replied as he ushered her inside the center.

While she was distracted by his words, a rough hospital blanket was wrapped around her shoulders and someone pressed a cup of coffee into her hands. The lights and sounds of concerned conversation dazed her. It was so very odd to find such activity and light after being at what equated to a murder scene.

"Toby?" she murmured. "I'd almost forgotten." How could she forget him just like that?

"That's what I was trying to do, my dear doctor. Don't feel bad. I wanted to take your mind off everything, and I'm almost always successful at what I put my mind to." His lighthearted smile slipped, and his words became more serious. "Your Mr. McWade will be fine. It won't do you any good to remember him as you found him. Exposure to this weather would have finished him if you _hadn't_ found him –"

"Don't say things like that." Carly shuddered. It was too much to think that Toby was alive because of a whim. It was more than gruesome to think that he was in such a critical condition for the same reason.

Lawley eyed her but chose to credit her shivers to a chill. Mainly because she wouldn't accept concern. "Go on. Get changed and I'll take you to the hospital."

* * *

The relief that should have come from the doctors' report that Toby was breathing on his own and would continue to do so for some time to come was severely overshadowed by the second bit of news.

Toby was also in a coma.

Carly had tried to pay attention to the specifics – the whys and wheres of the damage – but her mind drifted without her permission. She knew she could blame her inattention on shock . . . but she didn't seem to care enough to do so.

So she and Leo say side by side in the waiting room. Leo was waiting for the go ahead to see her nephew; Carly was simply waiting. For what, she wasn't quite sure. Maybe for news of Toby, maybe for Lawley to come back and haul her home – although she was capable of doing that herself, wasn't she? – maybe just because she wouldn't risk breaking into a thousand pieces if she didn't move from the uncomfortable vinyl upholstered chair.

A doctor came in to call to Leo into Toby's room. His ICU room. Carly tried to be supportive; she patted her friend's hand and smiled weakly. _Go on,_ she tried to say, but her throat was too dry. Leo went anyway. There wasn't much that could have held her back.

Left in sole possession of the waiting room, Carly slumped down in her chair and tried not to close her eyes. Yes, she was tired. Yes, she would gladly sleep. But to do so she would have to close her eyes and with images of Toby how she'd found him trying to crowd into her waking sight, Carly was almost scared to actually close her eyes and give the specters free reign of what should have been comforting darkness.

But exhaustion must have won out at some point because a hand gently shaking her shoulder made her open her eyes to discover unending blackness. Surprised, Carly blinked, and in doing so she discovered that the room wasn't dark. She'd actually done the impossible and fallen asleep.

Disoriented, she started dully at the evening sunlight pouring through the windows, at the clock that told her it was just a little past five, and the plain walls of the waiting room. This wasn't her house, and it wasn't any room in Briar Ridge that she could recognize.

"You're at the hospital."

"Toby." She shot to her feet – joints creaking as much as her voice had – and ended up swaying on her feet as all her blood rushed from her head.

"Whoa, easy there." Lawley stood and grabbed hold of her shoulders. Again. "Your protégé is still stable."

Carly blinked at him. As she felt the warmth of his hands soaking into her skin even through the fabric of her shirt, irritation pricked her at the reminder of how much he'd been touching her lately. She also realized how she must look.

"Lawley," she muttered, rubbing at her puffy eyes and trying to brush back her bushy hair.

The lawyer let go of her, but didn't do her the courtesy of stepping back a bit. "Yeah, _Lawley_. You don't need to sound so pleased." He stuffed his hands in his pockets. "Don't get too excited, but I have some news you're not going to like."

By this time her sluggish mind was churning. Whether she wanted to or not, she was waking up. And she could only think of one thing that could make Lawley look so apologetic.

"No. I don't want to. Not today. Not now."

"I'm afraid you don't have a choice, Dr. Beckham."

Carly didn't need to turn around. That grating voice could only belong to detective . . . Dang, she'd forgotten the man's name. But name or no, Carly didn't have to reconsider whether or not the man had the power to damage her fragile equanimity. It was the militant gleam in his eye that belief his offhand manner.

There must have been a look in her own eye pleading for escape because Lawley bent his head to meet her gaze. "Detective Noell needs to ask you some questions. You _were_ the first person on the scene."

_Right,_ she thought cynically. _And the fact that this is the second person of my close acquaintance has nothing to do with anything. It's not the least bit suspicious and not at all the reason behind Mr. Noell's desire to talk to me._

"How fortunate for me," she murmured, somehow certain that the attorney was well aware of what lines her thoughts had been running along. "I suppose that the absence of any Miranda Rights should be a comfort, correct?"

Noell just shrugged.

Carly wasn't the least bit comforted. "This is something that has to be done _now_?" She didn't like turning to Lawley for reassurance, but her nerves demanded soothing and he was the best she had at hand.

The unguarded note in Carly's voice made Lawley frown, but he didn't waver. "You know as well as I do, Doctor, that this interview needs to take place while all of this afternoon's details are still fresh in your mind."

_Doctor._ Carly squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. "One of you gentlemen is going to have to offer me a ride."

* * *

Two hours later, Carly sat at a battered table. Her head was cradled in her hands. A cup of cold, stale coffee sat near her right elbow. She was unsure of how many times she could repeat herself without going insane. That thought made her lips quirk as she let out a long sigh; how many of her patients felt as she did after a particularly grueling session?

"I already told you," she said wearily. "I came in to work. I was almost late and in a bad mood. I checked in. Leo told me that Toby had been tapped for night duty."

"And this is unusual?"

It was the same question that Yancy – Noell's female partner – had asked the last two times they'd been over this. Carly thought that she should try a bit of spontaneity in her questions, if only to avoid getting route answers.

"It's not very unusual. Toby is just another member of hospital staff. Yes, he's assigned to me and works most of the same shifts that I do, but he has contact with patients that I'm not treating."

The woman nodded and made a notation on the pad in front of her. Carly rolled her eyes and glanced at the large mirror in front of her, wondering just who was listening in on this conversation if they were as bored as she was.

"Doctor Beckham?"

Carly blinked and shook her head. "Anyway, as I was saying. I checked in, saw Toby's name on the sign-in sheet, but didn't think too much about it. I was about to be late for a meeting with my department head. Luckily, nearly everyone else was late as well. Dr. Holshack and I discussed Rainey for a few minutes before the meeting. After I left, I went to Rainey's room. I tried to page Toby. I didn't have any particularly brilliant plans for the day, but he's managed to make a connection with Rainey that I don't have. He gets the man to relax, and since I was going to attempt to get him to do something he wasn't going to want to do, I thought I'd take advantage of Toby's presence. But he didn't answer his pager."

"And what time was this?"

"I'm not sure. Around eleven-thirty or so."

Noell shifted through a pile of papers in front of him before finding the one he wanted. "According to the ward's check-in sheet, it was nearly noon by the time you got to the second floor nurse's station."

Carly shrugged. "My time has become less structured since being assigned to Rainey. I have fewer regular patients. I make my rounds when I can or when I decide to. All I know is that I went up to the second floor after my meeting. I guess it went late."

"According to one Dr. White who attended the same meeting, it was over closer to eleven than eleven-thirty."

Carly laughed even though she wasn't remotely amused. "Are you trying to imply that I had enough time between the end of my meeting and going to see patients to attack Toby?"

The two detectives exchanged glances. "We're just exploring all possibilities, Doctor. Can you tell us why there might be a discrepancy between your accounting of the time and Dr. White's?"

"The clock in the meeting room is ten minutes slow."

"That still gives you over half an hour of free time."

"I believe all state employees get an hour for lunch." Carly's nerves were wearing thin. "Look, we've already gone over the rest of my afternoon step-by-step twice. My head hurts, I'm tired, I'm hungry, and I don't remember anything else. I promise to call if I do, but unless you're going to charge me with something, I'd like to go home now."

The detectives exchanged another look that told Carly they were reluctant to allow her to leave, but that they didn't have any reason to keep her either. _Thank god. I can just see how that conversation with my mother would have gone. I've already had to ask her to bail me out of jail once in my lifetime. I wouldn't like to repeat the experience –_

"Doctor?"

Chagrined to have been caught daydreaming again, Carly stood, knocking over her Styrofoam cup as she did so. The slow wave of untouchable coffee slid over the table like some kind of '50's B-horror film monster. "Sorry," she mumbled, although she was nothing of the sort for either her inattention nor her mess.

"That's alright. You're free to leave."

Nodding stiffly, Carly walked to the door. Lawley was waiting for her on the other side. She scowled at him. "Were you listening?"

He shook his head. "No. It'd probably be a conflict of interest seeing as how I'm more interested in dating you than prosecuting you."

Slack jawed, Carly simply stared at him for a few heartbeats for his audacity, but then she had to laugh. His matter of fact tone made it sound like she should have deduced that long ago. When her laughter brought tears to the corners of her eyes, she realized she was bordering on the hysterical.

Lawley gently took her elbow and led her out of the station. It was still raining but his car was parked close to the doors.

"Com'on, dinner's on me."

"I'm not hungry."

"Then why did you say you were?"

Carly fixed him with a suspicious eye. "You _were_ listening," she accused.

He shook his head at her stubbornness. "I wasn't listening to your discussion with the detectives _closely_. Are you going to let me take you to dinner or not?"

Carly considered, and then decided it was the least he could do after leading her to believe that . . . She wasn't sure what he'd led her to believe, but she didn't like being led to believe anything by this man. "Yes. Dinner."

"Alright. Then please climb into the car so I don't have to stand here holding the door open for you while it pours down rain."

Carly glanced down and frowned at the car door he'd opened for her. With ill grace she climbed inside and told herself that if he hadn't wanted to get soaked, he could have let her open her own door.

* * *

It had always irritated Carly how drunks were such a popular punch line. Starting with town drunks back in the literature left behind by Shakespeare and his cronies all the way to John Wayne-esque Westerns, they were often portrayed as bumbling, mumbling comic relief. Silly drunks, philosophical drunks who pass out after handing out sage advice, the hilarity-filled attempts of friends to sober up their drunk buddy . . . None of it was realistic. Being drunk wasn't funny. Alcoholism was even less so.

Carly didn't bother using a just as unfunny situation as an excuse to get drunk. She just went and did it.

The reason she'd found herself in that state so often in the past was it took no less than an entire bottle of beer to make her tipsy and after that it was a downhill slide to nauseous oblivion. Carly knew that. In the past she hadn't cared until it'd cost her marriage and nearly her career before it'd even started. It'd taken two years of hard work to convince herself that letting alcohol haze her mind, emotions, and memory wasn't necessary for her survival. Until that very morning she could have proudly said that she'd been sober for eight years. That had all gone out the window within two minutes of the waitress taking their drink orders.

Lawley ordered two bottles of a local brew. Carly wouldn't deny that she hadn't know better than to drink. For all of a minute she'd stared at the bottle like it was a rabid mouse that would bite her the moment she reached for it.

"I know you don't usually drink . . ." The concern in her dining companion's eyes threw down a gauntlet. She didn't think he'd meant to, but she had picked it up the challenge and the bottle anyway.

Which led to Carly's irritated thoughts on the stereotypical treatment of drunks in literature and entertainment as Lawley – _Mick Lawley, D.A. –_ drove her swimming head home. As he provided a silent arm to steady her when she would have stumbled to her front door she was distantly aware that it was unlikely that she'd ever be able to face him again. When her clumsy fingers couldn't fit her key into the lock, Lawley gently took them away from her and opened the door with a great deal of (silent) gallantry.

His repayment for his efforts at courtesy was an ungrateful, humiliated, confused woman. She'd stumbled over Bast in her way in, causing the offended cat to race out the still-open front door. And that was the last straw in a gruesome day.

She cursed at him, unaware that her slurred words were all too audible in the quiet evening and that two or three of her neighbors were peeking through curtains to watch the commotion. What she was only too aware that she _ought_ to thank him and that she _wanted_ to ask him to stay. Which only made her _more_ confused and _more_ humiliated, and angry on top of that.

In the middle of her tirade Lawley interrupted her. "Go to bed, Dr. Beckham. You've had a long day."

When she was through gaping at him like an idiot, Carly tried to push past him. In her state it didn't take much more than an immoveable object – Lawley – and a hand on her arm to stop her in her tracks. "Let . . . me . . . go," she said slowly, trying to enunciate each word to communicate just how very much she wanted his helping hands off her.

"Go to bed."

"My cat –"

"You wouldn't know which one to reach for."

His words lashed at her even though they were free of both derision or amusement. Blinking back tears she cursed him soundly a second time before throwing herself on her couch mere moments before blacking out.

When she work late the next morning, Carly frowned to find herself shoeless, covered by an afghan, and playing host to the purring cat on her stomach. The business card inscribed with a home phone number and the words "Call me" explained just how everything had been set right.

The effort was not appreciated. But only because it was.

It made sense.

* * *

Carly cautious made her way into work two days later. She'd taken a day off for her own mental health . . . that and she had been afraid that if she left the house, she would have driven to the nearest convenience store for a twelve-pack. After a day and a night of battling those old familiar demons, Carly neither looked nor felt particularly good, but she was in control of her cravings, and work would do a great deal to take her mind off her problems. Especially since she had the feeling it was only a matter of time before people descended on Briar Ridge . . . and Mort Rainey. If Toby was the second victim she was linked to, the same went for her patient.

Red-eyed and yawning, Carly checked in with the security guard at the main gate . . . and at the main entrance. Tags were issued to her to show she'd passed both checkpoints without a problem; tags that would be invalid by tomorrow morning.

By noon she'd decided it was a great deal like working in a very small country where martial law had been declared. Not only were the staff starting to show signs of stress, but the live-in patients had been on edge all day, resulting in a rise of small scuffles and real and imaginary complaints.

_What live-in patients are left,_ Carly observed sourly over her microwavable cup of soup. Yesterday had been so filled with patients either leaving of their own will or being checked out by family members that she was shocked she'd managed to get a full day off. With her reduced workload she didn't have many patients left to sign release orders for. Dr. Holshack had signed for a delusional paranoiac and an acute depressive that had been collected by their families. But other than her day patients who were being turned away from the doors, she had one of the fullest caseloads for the psychiatric staff.

It made sense, she supposed. Enough shockwaves had gone out because of Steve's murder that a second attack – even what was appearing to be a non-fatal attack – had people panicking. And not just patients and their families. A record number of staff had either called in sick, or resigned, or simply not shown up. What with less than half of the patients left it was alright to be so shorthanded, but they couldn't afford to loose more people.

Just as Carly was finishing her lunch and resolving to go spend the afternoon with Rainey, her pager went off.

"Adam?" Unsure of why her boss wanted to speak to her – it wouldn't simply to be to inform her that he'd discharged two of her patients – Carly absentmindedly closed her locker and left the staff room, fiddling with the enormous tags she'd been issued. _Maybe he's gotten news about Toby from Leo. Or maybe he just wants to ask me questions like the police did. I hope he's not considering putting Rainey back up on the third floor, because **that** would be a mistake. It might undo months of progress._ The thought chilled her as her mind's eye envisioned the man's sanity as a yo-yo being constantly forced up and down between the heights and depths of sanity. It was not an enviable position.

When she reached Dr. Holshack's office, she knocked even as she entered the room, not wasting a moment in her rush to find out the reason behind her summons. The answer became clear before she could fully get the question out. Amy Rainey was sitting in front of the office's large desk, her fiancé – _Tom? Tim? Ted? Yes, Ted. Why am I surrounded by all these 'T' names? –_ sitting close enough to have laid is arm along the back of her chair. From the silence in the room Carly assumed she'd just interrupted the conversation.

"Umm . . . I'm sorry?" She glanced down at her pager to confirm that Adam had indeed been the one to page her.

"Thank you for your prompt response, doctor," Holshack said, dispelling Carly's uncertainty. "Mr. Milner and Mrs. Rainey would like to speak to you about Rainey."

_Well, if they were going to talk to me about anyone, it'd be about Rainey_ . . . Carly bit of that thought. She was not in the best of moods, but there was no reason to take her annoyance out on anyone here. Especially if she wanted to be successful at talking the couple in front of her out of what she suspected they were here for.

"Of course. May I speak to you for a moment, Dr. Holshack? It'll only be for a moment."

With bland smiles, the two doctors stepped out into the hallway.

"They want to get him transferred?"

Adam nodded.

"They understand what that would mean?"

"That's why I called you here, my dear." He gave her hand an avuncular pat. "Page me when I can use my office again and try not to let you passion run away with you."

"Me? Don't make me laugh." If her passions _hadn't_ been running away with her during the last few days, perhaps the good natured ribbing would have been amusing. "This might take awhile."

It did. The meeting surpassed even Carly's expectations in how long she had to stay on the offensive and fight to keep Rainey at Briar Ridge. If it'd been Amy alone she'd been meeting with, things wouldn't have taken more than five minutes. But with her fiancé along, not only were Amy's massive depths of wishy-washiness revealed, but she was stubbornly refusing to take a stand on the matter.

Carly only just barely managed to say that what Ted thought didn't matter because it was clear that Amy listened to the man, but it was clear that it was the fiancé's agenda to get Rainey out of Briar Ridge and into the State Penn. Why he was so insistent wasn't apparent – other than a massive dislike for the former author – and that made Carly a bit nervous. Or at least steeled her nerves enough to condense all her arguments into a single point.

"Mr. Milner. Amy." Carly came around the desk to lean against its front. Standing, she felt like she had a bit more consequence than she'd had while sitting behind the monstrosity. "I can't keep you from removing Mr. Rainey from this institution. But I will remind you that he is here under the order of the State. There is no other place for him to go except to the State Penitentiary."

"I'm not seein' the problem here. You can make your visits there," Ted's natural Southern drawl challenged.

"We're not discussing whether or not I can keep my appointments with Mr. Rainey," Carly said patiently. "We're discussing what is _best_ for him, and in my professional opinion, being removed from the familiar surroundings of Briar Ridge – where he has privacy, quiet, around the clock care, freedom to leave his room during the day, structure, etc. – and being sent to prison would be nothing less than a massive shock to his psyche." When Amy stiffened in her seat, Carly knew she had won this time around. There was no telling when that might change. "Every step of progress we've made in the last five months would be lost. There's no telling if he'd simply revert back to his vegetative state or something worse. Sending him to jail would be tantamount to psychological murder." She allowed that to sink in, then went in for the kill before Ted could say anything. "Amy, are you sure you would like to have Mort discharged from Briar Ridge?"

"Is there any risk to him if he stays here?"

"Physically? I don't believe so. We're crawling with security guards at the moment as you can well see. And his mental state shouldn't be more than slightly upset by a few minor changes in his schedule and care."

"Alright . . . then he'll stay. For now."

Carly nodded, deciding that since her piece had been said, she really had nothing to add. And in any case, it was rude to crow over a victory. Especially when her strongest opponent was giving her a veiled look of dislike.

* * *

**Author's Thanks: **many, many thanks to all the reviewers who keep me going and check up on me when I don't update when I should. Those people would be…**Dawnie-7** (I don't know how much I'm going to develop that rivalry between Michael and Mort, but it certainly is fun to write. And with Toby out of commission – for various unknown and nefarious reasons – perhaps I'll let the two boys hang out more. You're one of the few people who didn't say anything about poor Toby. Way to hold back on the exclamation points. .); **Savvy TBird** (You're going crazy to figure out where this is going? What a coincidence. So am I. :D This didn't get to you any sooner than you wanted, but I think – and hope – it was worth the wait.); **Stahlfan125** (You're a Lawley fan, eh? I don't think I hear from very many of those, although I'm always happy to. The poor man needs his ego stroked by someone, and lord knows that Carly isn't doing it.); **tinkthefairy** (You discuss when I'm going to post with your cohorts? Woo-hoo! I'm a conversation piece. :P); **Unik** (I agree that phonetics can be ever so much fun. Not to mention easier to spell. I'm very glad that you're finding everything to be of a consistently high quality, and I'm sorry for the occasion misspelled/misplaced word. I go over things with a spell check and a grammar check, but computers apparently can't catch everything.); **Erinya** (I'm glad I can BS my way through enough stuff that I can impress people who actually know what I should know to be talking about the things I do. :P But both my parents work for state agencies, and my dad is part of a union, so I do hear a thing or two about meetings and such. Tension is fun, especially when I can torture poor Carly with it. The girl's life is much too happy-go-lucky – and isn't that a scary thought. .); **DeppDRACOmaniac** (I hope that the fact that Toby still lives is some comfort to you.); **SpadesJade** (was I making a Freckle-Juice reference with the lemon juice freckle cure? I remember pickle juice…is that the same book? It's been a long time since elementary school. ;D Peanuts are the best, and Lucy is my favorite and should me emulated whenever possible. I didn't kill Toby, I just felt like yanking everyone's chain. Yes, that's sadistic, but what do you expect? I'm a fanfic writer.); **websurffer** (I am a very mean person. I've never denied it. I don't know anyone named Toby, but I just remembered that one of my elementary school teachers had a daughter whose name was Carly. shrug); **Blue** **Autumn** **Sky** (Tension is so much fun. You never know how it's going to snap. Mort is so much fun to write. I missed him this chapter but I promise lots of him next chapter.); **butterflywings32** (I give you an award for the most !'s used. Since Toby isn't really dead, am I forgiven?); **Spoofmaster** (I like the stream-of-thought-like review.); **A** **Cheerful** **Reader** (I'm so happy you're not on as many meds! I've been on meds and they're no fun. They mess you up almost as much as they fix you. No insults to Mort or Carly for the Toby preference. He's mine, and that's the great thing about stories – you can like whoever you wish. .); **Little** **Fox** (my erstwhile 'kick! I miiiiiiiiss you. Don't worry if your roommate thinks your insane. I passed that point long ago with all my friends and they're still very nice to me. :P If you want to know what happens with Salida, go bug FF.); **Kitty** **Kisser** (Why did I attack a good guy? Well, it had to happen sooner or later. If the good guys never got attacked, where's the drama?); **Lynx** (you're so enthusiastic in your reviews that I never know what to say back! But I love them dearly and they make me smile, so thank you.); **Humiliated** **Grape** (evil cliffhangers rule! Well, if you know what's going to happen next, then they rule. I don't like it when other authors do it. :P How's the weather where you are? Warming up yet?); **SparrowLover** (Mort noticed what you noticed? Am I forgetting something from the last chapter, or are you _and_ Mort noticing something that I'm not? It's possible. Characters and reviewers are tricky like that.); **normal** **human** **being** (have we reached the point where you're convincing yourself of who the villain is? Because I may or may not have reached that point. I reserve the right to change or make up my mind.); **Sugarbutt** (If we're talking about wagering chapters of COAFEM for chapters of my fics, then I think we're all due for more Sands/Mort mayhem. .); **RaynesandPours** (Well, was the wait worth it? I always hope so, and I'm always reassured, but it doesn't seem to help. :P A fanfic writer _would_ say that.); **SS** (I don't think you ever have to worry about being "late" with a review, considering how long it takes me to post chapters. And if I'm managing to be seamless after writing this fic for over a year, then I'm sure I don't know how I'm managing it. You have no idea how many times I have to go back and read things because I've forgotten what I've written.); **CleopatraVII** (I didn't update soon, but at least Toby's alive. That's something, right?); **archivist** (Yes, it had to be Toby because I needed to up the suspense. shrug But he's alright for the time being, so I hope all is forgiven. .) 


	17. Chapter Sixteen

**Author's Note: woo-hoo! I have finally finished this chapter! I didn't think I was going to do it. What with family visiting, and major housecleaning going on, and the odd job to earn a bit of money, I didn't know _what_ was happening with this story. But here's the next chapter and I am very happy. :D Please enjoy it as much as I did.**

**Author's thanks at the end.**

* * *

Allowing the warm blush of success to cheer her – and to fill her craving for a cigarette – Carly took the stairs to the second floor, considerably more optimistic than she'd been when the day had started. Getting her own way usually had that effect on her. After taking on Mort's occasionally supportive/occasionally indecisive – and on Ted's part, completely uncooperative – caretakers, she once again reminded herself that the rush of triumph –_ So I'm a little smug._ – was better and better _for_ her that the same giddy sensation caused by intoxication. After yesterday's hangover, that truth went down more sweetly that it had in the past. Which only increased the swelling of her head. 

Her self-congratulatory bubble burst a few minutes later when she was looking over Mort's chart at the second-floor nurses' station. Two days of disruptions in general and personal routine had left its mark on her patient in the form of less sleep and decreased appetite. While Carly found this discouraging, it wasn't exactly unexpected. The occupants of Briar Ridge were sensitive to the . . . the _feelings_ (for lack of a better word) if the facility. To the emotions of the nurses, the increased or decreased watchfulness of the orderlies and security guards, the briskness of the doctors . . . It didn't matter that they were never actually informed of anything. They were their own little complement of Jedi knights that were able to sense disturbances in a Force limited to the hospital grounds.

Carly laughed softly to herself. That comparison reminded her of the mother who'd brought her child in because the girl had been playacting at being a Jedi . . . It'd been exactly that. Playacting. Adam swore it'd really happened, but she had her reservations. Even if it was a good story –

"Dr. Beckham?"

Carly looked up from Rainey's chart to see a young candy striper standing in front of her, a folded slip of paper in her hand. "A message for you, Doctor. It was found in the office."

"You don't know who sent it?" Carly asked as she took the paper.

"No stamp," the girl pointed out. "It didn't come in the mail. But that's about all anyone knows."

"Hmm." _That's odd._ Carly ran the envelope over her fingers a few times, then shrugged. "Thank you for bringing this up."

"You're welcome, Doctor."

Carly watched the candy striper leave, then turned her attention to her anonymous letter. Some . . . instinct . . . told her to move away from the nurses' station before opening and reading it. For all she knew it was a note from Mick – _No, not "Mick." Lawley._ – and the last thing she wanted was to be embarrassed in front of a bunch of her coworkers. She'd never hear the end of it . . .

_What the hell?_

This definitely wasn't the kind of letter that would make her blush. This was the kind of letter that restraining orders were based on.

yOu'RE neXt

"Doctor, are you alright?"

"What?" Forcing her eyes up from the page, Carl realized that she'd stopped in the middle of the hallway. "Oh, yes. I'm fine." _Liar._ "I just forgot something." _Like how to breathe._ Sardonic asides notwithstanding, Carly felt as if she'd like nothing more than to take a seat. "Excuse me."

With a quick sidestep, she moved into an unoccupied room. She slowly inhaled the deepest breath she could manage as she tried to calm herself down. _Be sensible._ This wasn't the first nonsensical or threatening note she'd every received. It was one of the hazards of working with the mentally unbalanced. Sooner or later she seemed to piss _someone_ off. And they tended to respond in whatever way seemed appropriate. Most often, that was a simple lack of cooperation. Every now and then someone would tell her off. Or start ignoring her. And occasionally they tried to scare her off.

_But still . . . this has only happened three other times._

Not that anything had ever come of it before. So there really wasn't anything for her to worry about.

_No one's ever been murdered on the grounds either . . ._

Carly looked down at the note; she'd unknowingly crumpled it into a ball. Sighing, she smoothed the wrinkles out and tried to read it objectively. Tried to analyze the intention and emotion behind the words to assess their threat.

Point one – chopped out newsprint.

_Disguising handwriting. Because **I'll** recognize it or out of a fear that this will find its way to the police and **they'll** recognize it? Or just because that's what criminals do on TV and in movies when they send threats?_

Point two – each letter cut out individually instead of as entire words.

_This person is thorough. Obsessive-compulsive, or trying to communicate that they really mean this._

Point three – no clarifying clauses.

_Immediate threat would be more likely if what I'm next in line for was spelled out for me. But it's not._

Still, this didn't _feel_ harmless. Recent events had put her on edge, made her more wary, more cautious, more open to intimidation.

_If Steve weren't dead, I'd suspect him of trying to freak me out._ The thought of vengeful ghosts inspired a slightly hysterical giggle.

_Calm down, Carly, old girl._ That thought inspired her to take another deep, calming breath. State policy was very clear in these cases. She was to notify the police and security of what she'd received. And then let others handle it. For the first time she was more than happy to follow procedure.

_Just get through today. Then take this by the police station and forget about it. This is part of their job. Not mine._

* * *

It was very, very quiet.

Which was odd. There were always people going up and down the corridor, and voices from the more talkative patients. Not to mention in conversations between the staff. From the way they went on, they obviously thought that no one around could hear them. Or at least no one particularly cared. That was true in Mort's case, but he'd heard some of his neighbors talking over the latest overheard gossip.

At first, Mort hadn't minded. Noise was . . . it got to him sometimes. The corridor outside his room got too loud with people coming and going. With the raised, upset voices of his neighbors. When it got to be too much, he'd go outside. Or at least he would have if the past few days hadn't been filled with rain.

But there had been rain. So Mort had paced, and ground his teeth, and paced some more. Once – just once – he'd attempted to go outside despite the weather but had been browbeaten back into his room by a grim-faced nurse.

And if the weather and the noise wasn't enough, there were the unbearable moments of silence at noon and his own excruciatingly familiar company. He was puzzled that first day when Toby and the woman-who-wasn't-Amy – _Dr. Beckham - _didn't drop by. Not that Dr. Beckham came by every day, but Toby did. On weekdays at least. But today was Thursday – Mort kept track of such things – so Toby's absence couldn't be explained by a convenient weekend.

Perhaps it was the weight of his own solitude that was agitating the itch if a severe case of cabin fever that'd settled over him. That in itself was enough to send prickles of irritation up and down his spine. He'd enjoyed his own company before he'd lost his mind.

_One, two, three, four, five, six . . ._ That was another thing. _Had_ he lost his mind? He didn't _feel_ like a psycho axe murderer.

_Oh, oh, oh . . ._

Digging his fingers though his hair, he started to energetically pace around his small room. Just the thought of axes and the like was enough to make him wonder just what he was capable of. Would he be so . . . _tight_ . . . inside if he didn't have a reason to be? How much of what he was accused of had actually happened in those days, those weeks, that he couldn't remember?

There was yet another thought that sent him scurrying to occupy his mind before he became overwhelmed. Books weren't very effective; they just spawned new ideas that led back to those dangerous mental paths.

Eventually he turned to writing in his desperation. Letting his awareness of his surroundings slide, he let his thoughts go. He didn't read over what he'd put down on paper. He was too scared to.

When his door opened that afternoon, Mort paid it no mind. Lost in the cramped writing in front of him and more focused on his tired fingers than what was going on around him, he simply assumed that he'd lost track of time – his shades were pulled against the gloom outside – and that his visitor was a nurse or orderly with his dinner tray. Since they'd give up on talking to him, he'd decided to ignore them.

Carly stood just inside Rainey's doorway, watching her patient. As timed passed and he didn't even turn his head to look at her, she wondered if she was being punished. She had, after all, broken schedule by not coming to see him yesterday and by coming in today. If she _was_ being punished, she was going to have to reconsider how important how attached to the clock he actually was. But in the meantime . . .

"Good afternoon, Mort."

Mort surprised her nearly as badly as she'd surprised him when he spun around. With his matted hair, pale skin, and wild eyes, he looked like a madman. His stance relaxed almost immediately after he recognized who he was looking at, but Carly's heart wasn't so fast to slow.

"Sorry, Mort. I didn't mean to scare you like that. May I have a seat?"

He nodded once – or perhaps he only jerked his head – but Carly sat at the chair across from his anyway. "What are you writing?"

If she weren't afraid of his health, the way the blood drained from his face as he noticed the papers in front of him might have fascinated her. As it was, she only felt her heart sink.

"Mort? What's wrong?"

He shook his head slowly. Before she could ask another question, he stood, gathered the papers into a small sheaf, folded them in half, and in half again, then rounded the table to approach her. Carly sat absolutely still as he came to stand next to her, not even daring to turn her head when she saw his arm reach for her out of the corner of her eye. For a split second she was _absolutely certain_ that Rainey was the one behind her threatening note. . . But then reason and faith reasserted themselves; Mort didn't have access to scissors or newspapers unless it was through her or Toby, and she knew that he wasn't violent.

Finally she felt a bit of pull on her ubiquitous white coat. Glancing down, she watched as Mort slid his papers into her pocket.

She waited until he was seated again before asking, "These are for me?" No answer. "Am I supposed to get rid of them?" Mort looked around the room, his eyes focused on the seam where walls met ceiling.

_Fine._ She wasn't really in the mood to play guessing games at the moment anyway. There were bigger things that she needed to discuss with him. Still, she fidgeted, getting up to open his shades to allow the day's sunlight to flood the room. As if that would help dispel the unpleasantness of what she had to say.

She say back down at the table. "Mort, I need to talk to you. You're not going to like what I have to say –" His head whipped around, his body grew rigid, his eyes drilled into hers. His . . . focus . . . startled her. "No, there's nothing wrong for you. You're still safe here." She crossed her fingers under the table to excuse the possible lie. "What I need to tell you is that . . . is that Toby's been hurt. He won't be coming to visit for awhile . . ."

* * *

After a _very_ long day at the office – explaining Toby's absence to Mort had been harder and taken more time than she'd expected, not to mention she'd gone through a new round of questioning at the police station when she'd dropped off her threatening note – Carly came home to a very unwelcome surprise.

Her mother's car was in her driveway.

Cursing softly the entire time as she parked, gathered her trash, and retrieved her briefcase from the backseat, Carly vented her feelings about this unexpected – and unwanted – visit. She hadn't even had time to clean up, really. And her mother would be certain that a mess in the house meant a mess in Carly's personal life. "Messy people have messy lives," was her mother's motto. Or at least one of them. All of them more annoying than the next.

"Damn, damn, damn, damn," she hissed under her breath as she stomped up the path to her door. "Of all the times to drop by for a visit –" The door opened under her hand and Carly was left staring at her mother.

"There you are, darling. I was worried." Anita Beckham leaned forward and pressed a dry kiss to her daughter's cheek. Yet for all her congeniality, she didn't move out of the doorway so Carly could enter her own house.

"Here I am, sober as a priest on Sunday," Carly muttered under her breath as she crowded closer to the door. "Were you planning on letting me in, Mother, or do I need to find a hotel for the night?"

"No need to get snappish." Carly barely withheld a snort of distain. "When you weren't at Penny's bridal shower Tuesday night –"

Another string of soft curses trailed behind Carly as she pushed her way past her mother.

"I was busy, Mother. I know that's not an excuse for forgetting, but I had a lot of other things on my mind." With any luck, this could be settled quickly and she could curl up in front of the TV for a few hours while her brain shut down on her –

"Like that second attack?"

"Damn," Carly whispered under her breath. To her mother she said, "What makes you think I had anything to do with that? I mean sure, it's disturbing –"

"Don't try to talk your way around me, Carly Jane. I _saw_ your name in the paper. You were the one to find that poor boy."

"That gives me a very good reason for forgetting about the bridal shower then, doesn't it?" Carly demanded. "Look, if you're here to comfort your poor, traumatized daughter, you might as well leave. I'm fine."

"Which is why you look like you've been through the wringer. I understand."

"Mother . . ." Carly pinched the bridge of her nose and sighed. "I'm alive. I have all my limbs. I haven't fallen prey to a chainsaw wielding hick or an escaped convict –"

"Not for lack of trying . . ."

It was an old argument between the women. Carly was determined to keep her job and Anita hated the thought of her only daughter working closely with the state of Maine's most insane criminal element. Even if Carly mostly dealt with walk-ins and check-ins. And while it was an argument both could have in their sleep, Carly didn't have the energy for it right now.

"If you're just going to nag me, I'm going to have to ask you to leave, Mother. I'm tired. I haven't eaten since eleven this morning. I need sleep."

Anita drew herself up to her full height, an offended look on her face. "I came down here purely to see if you were alright or not . . ."

"And you've seen." _Please, don't make me deal with this right now._ "You're welcome to stay, Mom." Surely they could get though a single night together without spilling blood. "I'm just . . . really tired. Please don't expect me to be any sort of hostess."

"Oh, that's alright dear." Now that she was getting her own way, Anita bustled forward and ushered Carly down the hall. "You're not much of a hostess even when you're not tired." Before Carly could decide if that was an insult or not, she found herself at her bedroom door. "You go get changed and I'll see what you have around for a meal."

_And I wonder how I became so managing,_ Carly thought ruefully as she followed her mother's directions.

She was just pulling on her favorite pair of sweats and a worn tee left over from her wild college days when she heard her doorbell ring. She doubted that her mother had ordered a pizza (although that's what she'd been planning on before arriving to find she had company), but she didn't really care to go find out who was at the door either. Instead, she went into the bathroom and started messing with her hair. The bun she had it pulled back into was starting to give her a headache. Having it down and loose was a bit of a pain for practical reasons, but it also made her feel . . . young. Feminine. Free. All good enough reasons to let it loose for the night.

From the living room she heard the door open, briefly heard two voices conversing, then heard the door shut. And then silence. _Must not have been too important,_ she thought as she slipped on a headband to keep her hair out of her face.

Padding into the living room in her bare feet, she called to her mother in kitchen, "Who was that?" as she dug the papers Rainey had given her out of her briefcase. She could at least look them over tonight and let them stew for a bit while she slept. From the way Mort had reacted to them, she assumed that there was potentially something important in them. _Maybe –_

"Hey there, pretty lady."

Carly's head flew up, though she didn't turn to face the kitchen. "I hope I just imaged what I just heard," she said ominously.

"No luck."

_Isn't that just the theme for today?_ Carly turned and faced Lawley with a stern eye; it clashed with the embarrassment flooding her cheeks. "What are _you_ doing here?"

"Well, as I was just explaining to your mother, you weren't feeling so hot the last time I saw you, and I just wanted to make sure everything was alright."

_You mean you wanted to make sure the drunkard had cleaned herself up? That she wasn't wallowing in her own filth?_ The thought was bitter and unfair, and somehow Carly kept all traces of it out of her voice as she commented, "My, is today 'Check-Up on Carly Day?' Did I miss a memo?"

"Be nice," was the low warning to behave from the kitchen. Carly rolled her eyes and Lawley chuckled.

"What's that you've got there?" he asked, nodding towards the papers in her hand as he came into the living room.

"None of your business, Lawley."

"Carly!"

"They're _confidential,_" Carly said, loud enough for her mother to hear. "You know, an in relating to my _patients?_"

"Calm down, my good doctor," Lawley murmured as he took a seat. "You're like a Momma bear with her cubs. Which, by the way, is enough to tell me that those do involve Mr. Rainey in some manner."

"And you're like a terrier with a bone," Carly shot back. "Is there a reason you're still here?"

Lawley colored faintly. "Your mother invited me in for dinner."

"Ahh . . ." She nodded sagely, then yelled, "Mother! Stop trying to set me up!"

"Get married and I won't have to!"

Shaking her head, Carly started to unfold the papers in her hand. "I'd ask you to leave, Mr. Lawley, but it'd be more trouble with my mother than I'm willing to cause. However, I hope you don't mind if I do a bit of work before we eat since I'm still planning on doing so even if you do."

"I consider myself warned. Mind if I turn on the news?"

"Suit yourself." Carly turned her attention to her work and quickly became absorbed.

* * *

"Of all the selfish displays I've seen in my life, that one took the cake."

"What?" Carly looked up from the pages of notes she'd taken on Mort's papers. They weren't terribly involved, but there were key phrases he used repetitively, certain breaks in sentences where an experienced author would avoid them, and so on. For the moment she was simply writing down what caught her eye; she'd analyze things tomorrow.

"That's what!" When Carly still showed no signs of comprehension, Anita threw up her hands. "You were unforgivably rude to that young man."

"_That young man_ knew what he was in for before he reached the front door," Carly muttered. Of all the things they couldn't be talking about, this was very near the bottom of her list.

"He likes you!"

"Not because of anything I've done. Trust me."

"Why not? He's a nice, hansom man your own age, has a steady job, has excellent manners – did you notice how he pulled out your chair for you?"

Yes, actually, she had. "Doesn't matter. He's prosecuting one if my patients. We have to maintain a professional relationship or we could both get ourselves sued."

Her mother's lips pursed. "Well . . . there's life after to consider."

"At the rate the case is going, there's not going to _be_ a life after." Not that Carly really minded. The more time she had to work on Mort, the better.

"Don't you _want_ to get married again?"

"Not particularly. I'm perfectly content being a divorced workaholic who lives with her cat."

Carly grinned when she heard her mother walk away muttering, "None of _my_ children would be so stupid. She must take after her father."

"Sweet dreams to you too!" she yelled down the hallway before turning over to the last page of Mort's writings.

* * *

_Can't remember. Can't remember . . . any . . . of it . . . what they say . . . the most important part is the ending . . . how did it end? Don't know. Not well. Wasn't me? Most important . . ._

Those words, words she had read the night before, were still running in circles through Carly's mind as she sat down for lunch the next day. Not in their entirety, of course. She didn't _need_ to remember all of them when the pertinent points were conveyed by those few words and the confusion behind them.

_Still, I ought to read over all of it again tonight. Last night I was tired and overwhelmed. Reviewing it will –_

**_Deedelie-deedelie-deedelie_**

Carly snapped back to attention as her cell rang. The first thing she noticed was that the staff room was strangely empty for this time of day. The sound was that her tuna sandwich – made by her mother who obviously still thought her daughter was in pigtails – was neatly torn into four pieces. The third was that her cell was still ringing.

Fumbling slightly, she picked up her phone and answered with a utilitarian, "Beckham."

"You know, I heard some _very_ interesting things from my friends down at second precinct this morning."

"That's nice." Carly frowned as she tried to identify the voice. "Lawley?"

"Don't play innocent with me, _Dr._ Beckham."

"What's got your panties in a knot, Lawley?" Last night had almost been pleasant. What had changed since then –

"Care to explain why I had to hear from Detective Noell that you'd received a threatening note yesterday?"

_Ahh . . ._ "Because it wasn't any of your business? Because _I'm_ not any of your business? Because I'm perfectly capable of handling it myself? Because I've gotten them before? You're free to take your pick."

"How can you say that?" Lawley still sounded outraged.

"How can I say what?"

"That it's none of my business! Haven't you figured out by now –"

"That you'd _like_ my business to be yours? Yes, I've noticed. However, there's term for that kind of relationship between two professionals like ourselves: conflict of interest. And there's another term that would figure prominently in the suit: entrapment."

"There's life after Rainey to consider, you know." Lawley now sounded faintly amused. "And I intend to keep after you until you give in. And don't say that the word for that is 'stalking.'"

Carly rolled her eyes. "You're more than welcome to try your best. And I intend to keep my business to myself."

"I consider myself warned." There was a pause, then he continued in a more serious voice, "You don't seem to be taking that threat seriously."

"That's because I've had this happen before. Really. I'm fine. Nothing's ever come of the notes I've gotten before."

"No one's ever been killed or attacked at Briar Ridge before, either," he countered.

_That's what I was just telling myself,_ she thought as she glanced at her watch. _Oh goodie._ "As much as I'd like to continue this conversation, my lunch break is over and there is a large grindstone requiring the presence of my nose."

Lawley sighed deeply but didn't argue pass the prudent advice to "be careful."

When Carly hung up, she did it with a smile.

* * *

The commotion could be heard from all the way down the hall. Carly sped up her steps until she was jogging down the corridor that Mort's room was on. It was possible that the disturbance was coming from one of his neighbors, but from the size of the crowd gathered, it was hard to tell.

"Let me through," she demanded as she pushed people aside. As she got closer to her goal, she could tell that the noise _was_ coming from Rainey's room. "Let me through, damn it. I'm his doctor."

"Dr. Beckham!" Traci, the head nurse on duty turned around from her position at the doorway, surprise written plainly on her face.

"Why didn't you call me as soon as he started," Carly demanded, trusting the nurse to be prompt in her answer without a glare to speed her along. Right now, she needed to see what Mort was doing.

"He just started, Doctor."

"Just . . ."

"About two minutes ago."

"Then I should have heard something _one_ minute ago. Certainly a page over the intercom if not a personal page. What happened to set him off?" From the way Rainey was tossing furniture around the room, something huge must have happened.

"I don't know. Aaron just did the hourly check ten minutes ago and he said that Mr. Rainey was sitting at his table. That's it."

_Writing? Did he write something he didn't want to see? Or is this just frustration?_ "Do you know what he was doing before he resorted to throwing furniture? Was any of this self-directed?"

"Carl says that he saw him hit his head against the table a few times before he overturned it."

_Frustration then._ That was good. She could deal with frustration by herself. It was less likely that he'd set out to hurt her if it was himself that he was mad at than it'd be if he'd snapped or something.

"Get these gawkers out of here."

"But, Doctor –"

"They all have jobs to do, correct? Well tell them to get to it. This is neither a circus nor a sideshow act." Having made her orders clear, Carly stepped into the room and closed the door behind her, keeping an eye out for any objects speeding her way.

"Mort? Can you hear me, Mort? Can you tell my why you're upset?"

He grunted as he tried to tip over his bookcase. Carly just righted a fallen chair and waited. Sooner or later he'd figure out that the bookcase was bolted to the floor. That or he'd wear himself out.

It took awhile for Rainey to give in and accept that he wasn't going to knock the bookcase over. Carly had to shoo three security guards, five orderlies, and Dr. Marchman himself away. That Marchman went without protest proved how well she was handling this case. If he'd had a single doubt that she couldn't, Mort would be back up on the third floor so quickly that everyone's head would have spun. She intuitively knew that she'd be called in to report on this uproar, but she could handle that if it meant keeping Mort in this room where he'd actually made progress.

Red-faced and sweaty from his exertions, Mort walked over to his bed and threw himself onto it, staring up at the ceiling impassively. He strongly reminded Carly of a disgruntled teenager . . . or an offended cat. _I wonder what he'd do if I shared that with him?_ Not that she was going to. This obviously wasn't the time.

"Well . . . you certainly got everyone's attention," Carly said offhandedly. Sometimes a sideways approach worked better than a direct one. Maybe if he couldn't see where she was coming from, she'd get a bit more cooperation from him. _God, I wish Toby were here. He'd . . . well, I'm not sure he'd get anything out of Rainey, but at least he'd be listened to and not have to resort to tricks._

That line of thinking did her no good. Instead Carly stood up and started picking things up – even though she knew she should have Mort do it to take responsibility for the mess he'd made – as she thought about what to say next.

"You seemed . . . frustrated. Nurse Traci says that you hit your head against the table. You didn't hurt yourself, did you?" When Mort actually shook his head, Carly was surprised into following up her question with another. "Do you want to tell me what caused this . . . session of creative furniture rearrangement?"

Mort was silent for so long that Carly turned her back on him to struggle with the table. Then, under the sound of her own efforts, she heard a . . . a croak. The table crashed back the floor as she spun around, eyes wide. "What . . . what did you say? I didn't quite hear you."

"It's . . . gone . . ."

* * *

**Author's Thanks:** wasn't that a rotten place to end? devil grin I know you'll all let me have it. ;) And in the meantime, I want to thank **Savvy TBird** (You're right about Carly snapping if I keep torturing her. I won't say if that's the reason I'm doing it or not. ;) I did have a lot of fun with this chapter though once I figured out how to make it move along.); **Dawnie****-7** (I had a friend who was in a horrible car accident. When the paramedics heard about it, they didn't bother to hurry because they figured he was dead. When they got there, the first thing he said to them was "don't touch the hair." He's insane.); **Lynx** (I would never slap you with a dead fish, because you always manage to read the current chapter before I post the next. :P If I ever lap you though… lol. My favorite scene with Amy in SW is when she calls Mort to see if he's alright while she's packing a romantic picnic to have with Ted. That girl. shakes head); **Stahlfan125** (I'm so glad you have SW on DVD. I watched it last night for a bit of extra inspiration and I'd forgotten how much I love that movie.); **Blue Autumn Sky** (I was well aware of what my reviewers would do to me if I actually killed Toby when I set that whole thing up. All I can say is that you guys don't disappoint. :D Yes, there's some hearts between Carly and Mick - heh, I love that name – and I most definitely got more Mort in this chapter. It was about time he got to progress a little more.); **Little Fox** (Hope your summer is going great. I haven't seen you around JA in forever, but then, that's to be expected since you're doing fun summer type stuff. :P How's this for a welcome home pressie?); **SpadesJade** (I don't believe in wimpy chapters unless it's a prologue and I know I'll have a real chapter up right away. Or vignettes. Vignettes can be wimpy. :P Yeah, I thought it was about time for Carly to crash. I mean, taking disaster calmly is one thing. To do that when someone close to you has been hurt is heartless. And I don't want Carly to be heartless.); **SparrowLover** (Fake signals? I'd never send those out. Or that's what I claim anyway. They do tend to get confused with the real signals though, and that makes me change my mind and soon the fake signals are the real ones and vice versa, and then things get very, very, messy… ;) More Mort this chapter. I did make that a bit of a priority. Not much point in writing a SW fic if there's no Mort.); **butterflywings32** (Jellybeans for me? I love jellybeans. Mmm… :P I agree that Amy should be smacked in the head with something large and heavy, but unfortunately, that's not really in the plan right now.); **A Cheerful Reader** (You're right about how people wake up out of comas when they're in a story/movie/show. I don't really know when Toby's gonna wake up, and if he'll remember anything when he does, or if he'll save the day… I don't like to get ahead of myself. :P); **CleopatraVII** (Carly had stopped by the police station for questioning - and to rescue Mort from that fate - after Steve got knocked off.); **AndromedaStarr** (Rambling is fine by me, especially as it makes me think of what I've written, and when I can't remember, it guilts me into writing. So I like rambling. ;) I think all writers are a bit schizophrenic. It's the only way to explain talking about characters as if they were really alive. I don't blame you for being biased towards Mort, but I really wanted to write a SW fic where Mort didn't gasp get the girl. gaspgasp I like doing things like that.); **Spoofmaster** (Don't worry about forgetting to check in. It's not as if I'm Speedy Gonzales when it comes to updating. :P); **Humiliated** **Grape** (I hate hot weather, and that's what we've been getting lately. Thank the lord for AC.); **InuYashaphr33k** (I'm very glad you're enjoying this.); **Dustbunnie** (And you get the award for prodding me into action this time around. I'm so glad I have people who come in two months after I've written a chapter and then review it.) 


	18. Chapter Seventeen

**Author's Note:** alright, here's this chapter of FS. Sad to say, but I think there's only one more chapter (and possibly a epilogue) of this fic left. The end kinda snuck up on me.

I also want to let you all know that I'm putting PS on hold while I finish writing this fic and Days. I need the time to consider the plot of that story as I'm not really writing it with a goal in mind. I'm not deserting it, but I do need to spend some time developing it. Sorry to disappoint those fans, but it has to be done if I don't want to spend the next 100 pages of the fic rambling.

Also…I've started a LiveJournal account. For those of you who like that sort of thing, I've put the address in my FFN profile, so you can look me up.

Author's thanks at the end as always. Enjoy this chapter.

* * *

"You're sure about this." It was less question than a last ditch attempt to keep his headstrong fiancée from going in to see her homicidal ex, but Ted felt like he had to try. But all he got for his pains was icy silence.

He sighed. "You know I don't like you getting so personally involved in all this, Amy. I mean, he _did_ try to _kill_ you."

This time Amy was the one to sigh as she waited for the elevator to stop. "Do we really have to have this discussion _again_, Ted? I know what Mort tried to do. I was there. And you don't believe me when I say that he _wasn't_."

"Amy, it's statements like that that make me worry about you. You're obsessing about this; creating excuses for him." Ted took hold of Amy's shoulders and made her look at him. "Saying that he wasn't really there is nonsense. _Nonsense._ Next you'll be telling me that it wasn't really him who killed those other men either. But it's not true. He did it. Mort was the _only _one who did it."

"Actually –" This interruption snapped Amy's almost hypnotized attention away from Ted, to his irritation. Carly on the other hand couldn't have been more pleased. "Actually, I believe that the evidence linking Mr. Rainey to the other two homicides is purely circumstantial."

"Dr. Beckham," Ted said grudgingly as he stepped aside to allow Amy to get out of the elevator.

"Mr. Milner." Carly's unholy glee at catching her foe trying to undermine her was aptly disguised as boredom. After all, it was a feeling she strongly associated with the man. "Mrs. Rainey, I'm glad you could come up so quickly."

"How's Mort? Has he said anything else?" Amy set off down the corridor, her pace swift enough to force Carly and Ted to lengthen their stride if they desired to keep up with her. "Is he still upset? Is he eating well? Has he been getting enough sleep?"

Carly was well aware that the man next to Amy was growing redder and redder with each question. _Serves him right for tagging along. He can't honestly expect to be let in on this little conference. I don't know how I can make myself any clearer when I say that anything to do with Mort is none of his business –_

"Doctor?" Amy stopped in the middle of the hallway, unnerved by Carly's silence. "Is Mort alright?"

"What? Oh, yes. He's fine."

"And does he want to see me?" The question was cautious this time.

"Yes, yes, yes." Carly waved a hand in the air as she resumed their course. "He knows you're coming and he didn't protest. Don't mind me, I was just woolgathering."

"Probably wants to finish the job." When both women turned frowns on him, Ted held up his hands in surrender. "I'll be good."

_Fat chance._ And it probably wouldn't matter if he _was_ good. As long as he held such blatant contempt for Rainey, Carly knew that Amy would pick up on it. No matter that she didn't believe the same; the constant wear on her defenses would turn her eventually. Or ruin the relationship. Having gone through this same situation – albeit without the incarcerated ex – Carly held no illusions to this couple's chances.

Of course, she also held no illusions that Mr. Ted Milner was a first rate horse's ass.

They arrived at the small conference room where they were to meet with Mort. He wasn't there yet on Carly's orders; she wanted to see him before he saw his ex-wife. And she wanted time to get rid of Ted. There was no doubt that seeing the man who'd taken his wife would send Mort back into the depths of incommunicative stubbornness. _I've worked **much** too hard to let that happen._

"Well, Mr. Milner, I suppose this is where I must ask you to excuse yourself."

"What?" He was looking at her as if he though he'd misheard her. Carly didn't buy it for a moment. He'd heard exactly what she'd said; he just didn't want to believe it.

"I believe you're more than familiar with State policy, Mr. Milner. Without the express permission of my patient, you cannot be included in this session, or any like it that might take place in the future. The only reason Mrs. Rainey is permitted to attend is because she retained power-of-attorney – something I'm sure I've informed you of before."

"That man is a cold-blooded killer, and you expect me to let the woman I love go into the same room with him without me?"

"I do. And so does the law."

Carly wanted to laugh when the man's nostrils flared; the impulse became harder to control when he snapped, "That's it. I've had enough of this B.S. Amy, we're leaving."

For a moment Carly was sure that was going to be that, but then Amy displayed her rather undependable will. She dug in her heels, crossed her arms over her chest, and raised her chin. "I think I'm old enough to make my own decisions, Ted."

Realizing his mistake just a moment too late, Ted tried to change tactics. "Amy," he wheedled, "I'm just worried about your safety. Mort's dangerous whether he wants to be or not. Maybe you're right; maybe he wasn't aware of what he was doing when he attacked you, but the truth is that he did." Ted had been maneuvering closer to his fiancée as he'd given his spiel, and now he rested his hands on her hips while fixing her with a doleful, lovelorn gaze that nearly made Carly gag. "Let's just let our lawyers deal with the whole mess. We'll hire the best for him, I swear. I just don't want to risk losing you. I love you."

He'd been winning until his last few lines. Carly watched with fascination as Amy's face hardened, as she peeled Ted's hands away. "Mort loved me too," she said, carefully avoiding Ted's eyes. "That's why I have to do this myself and not hand it over to people who might not understand. After everything we did to him, I really do feel that this is the least I can do." Turning her back on him, Amy whispered her kill-shot. "If you love me as much as you say to you, you'll let me do this."

Before her furious companion could respond, Amy stepped inside the conference room and closed the door behind her. Carly had enough time to watch the other woman cross the room to a window before she was jerked around by the arm and confronted by an all but murderous Ted.

"You think you're so smart," he seethed in her face. "So damn selfless for sticking up for the rights of convicts and retards."

"That quite enough," Carly snapped as she jerked her elbow out of his grip. He'd been holding it hard enough to bruise, she was sure.

"Oh, that's right; we can't be insulting our bread and butter, can we?" His face was nothing but an ugly sneer. "You're a self-righteous bitch, do you know that?"

"And you're asking me to call for security." Not that she needed to; the staff was alert these days. Two guards were already on their way down the hall. Still, Carly narrowed her eyes and said in an uncompromising voice, "Get out of here before I press charges for harassment."

Ted glanced over his shoulder, saw the two hulking guards, then hissed, "You'll get what you deserve, _Doctor._ Sooner or later someone will see to it."

"I'm not so easily intimidated," she hissed back. It was a lie of course; it was unusual – even for mental health practitioners – to get two threats to life and limb in a single week. _For all I know, he sent that letter too. He was here with Amy that day, and none too happy with me –_

"Doctor? Can we help you?"

Carly looked away from the darkly compelling eyes before her and nodded. "Yes. Please escort Mr. Milner here outside. He may stay on the grounds, but I don't want his stepping foot inside our facilities again today."

"Yes, ma'am."

Watching to make sure that her orders were followed and that no fuss was made, Carly tried to dismiss the knowing smirk Ted had left her with. She knew the problems an overactive imagination could cause. It was just a figment of her imagination that there's been more to the smirk than amusement that she'd had to call for help. There hadn't been any latent hostility. There hadn't been an unspoken promise.

There hadn't . . .

* * *

Mort couldn't help but feel like a condemned man as two orderlies "accompanied" him through the ward. He knew that they were there for safety reasons – he'd seen other patients trailing the same white-clad shadows – still, he couldn't help but feel that they were there to keep him from bolting.

_God,_ how he'd love to do just that. He was terrified of seeing Amy again. What if he saw her and he suddenly remembered . . . everything? What if he remembered things he didn't think he was capable of outside the pages of a novel . . . the light of a computer screen?

That's what he was really scared of. He knew what he was capable of writing. Could the leap between page and his perception of himself not be as insurmountable as he'd always assumed?

_It's not too late. I can go back._ There wouldn't be any consequences – beyond some disappointed sighs from Dr. Beckham. He could go back, be safe, be silent . . .

The silence . . .

Or he could meet with Amy and _know._ Know either way. And that _had_ to be better than this constant second guessing, than the wondering, the doubt and the feeling that he wasn't the man he'd always known himself to be.

Didn't it?

Before he could answer that question, he was stopped outside a room; the time deliberation was over.

_Do it._

As a man half asleep, he reached for the doorknob . . . turned it . . . pulled . . .

And nothing happened.

He jerked –

– a hand appeared out of nowhere and kept the door from opening. Then it waved in front of his face in a bid to be noticed.

"Mort?" Carly watched as she slowly gained her patient's attention. She'd been trying to talk to him, but she didn't think he'd heard her until now. "Where were you? Back in your room?"

He shrugged. The good doctor tended to ask rhetorical questions. She was good at it, and at knowing when she was totally off the mark. A result of spending most of her career with habitual liars, mumblers, and mutes Mort supposed.

"You sure you want to do this?" Carly _had_ to make sure that this was what Mort wanted, that he was ready for it. If he wasn't, he could be traumatized, could even regress or relapse. He could have a panic attack, might . . . freak out for want of a better term. However, if he felt as if he had some control over the situation, she hoped he'd be able to cope.

Mort thought about her question, she could tell. It was written in the way he stood, in how he didn't look inside the room, in the way his fingers tensed. "It's your choice," she murmured. "We can do this later if you're not ready."

She waited a few moments more for his decision; when he nodded, Carly removed her hand from the door. "After you, Mr. Rainey."

With just the slightest hesitation, Mort stepped inside. Amy twirled around, an uncertain but brilliant smile on her face. "Mort!"

For a long time, Mort did nothing, not even blink. Then he wet his lips, and opened his mouth –

– nothing. But Carly felt pride grow inside her when he tried again. This time, he could just barely be heard.

"What are you saying, Mort?" Amy slowly walked around the table and Mort's mouth snapped shut. He took a step backwards; he didn't want to hurt Amy again, and that meant staying away from her.

Amy stopped, and held out her hands in a conciliatory gesture. "What are you trying to say, Mort? You can tell me. I'm listening."

But Mort could barely hear her over the roaring in his ears. Seeing Amy – even though it unnerved him – had done exactly what he'd hoped and feared.

"Amy," he whispered in a rough, unused voice. "I didn't do it. Not all of it. Not Tom and Greg. I didn't. Oh god, I didn't do it."

* * *

It was a long morning for all involved, though after his big revelation, Mort didn't really say anything else. If pressed, Carly would have described him as reveling in something. She didn't think that something was his ex's presence, after being in the same room with her for five minutes, he barely seemed to notice Amy. Or Carly for that matter. Yet his . . . exhilaration . . . was infectious.

So when Amy left the Briar Ridge nearly two hours after entering it, Ted was beyond furious. How dare she look so . . . alight . . . when he'd been all but banished to an uncomfortable park bench by that –

"Oh Ted, it's amazing. I think he remembers. Maybe not everything, but maybe enough."

"Enough to do what?" His tone was a chord of worry, anger, and dismay at her naïveté.

"To prove that he didn't kill Greg Carstairs and Tom Greenleaf."

"That's . . ." Words failed Ted. He couldn't say "That's wonderful," because he didn't think he could pull off a lie that huge. On the other hand, he couldn't be truthful without having to sleep on the couch for the next month. Or possibly two. Amy was being incredibly touchy about this. "Let's go home."

Some of his feelings on the matter must have escaped despite his attempt to avoid the matter, because Amy's face abruptly fell in. "Aren't you excited, Ted? I know you don't like Mort, but –"

"This is not the place to discuss this, Amy. _Let's go home._ We can talk about it there."

"Will we, Ted?" Amy changed from being disappointed to being combative. "Or will you tell me exactly what you think and then disregard everything I say that you don't agree with?"

Ted huffed and looked around to see if she'd drawn any attention with her raised voice. "I can't believe you just said that, Amy." Contrary to her tone, he strived to sound utterly sensible. "I don't understand why you're so upset with me. _I'm_ just trying to support you. You have to know that."

Amy sighed and nodded. Then, realizing where they were, she asked, "Why are you out here? Why weren't you waiting inside waiting for me?"

Ted wrapped a comforting arm around her shoulders and led her back to their car. "Oh, I just thought you might want some privacy, and it's just a nice day. By the way, I've got meetings all day tomorrow . . ."

* * *

"Mr. Lawley, your ten-thirty is here."

"Thank you, Susan. He give any hint of what he wants?" Lawley stood and slipped into his suit coat as he talked to his secretary over the intercom.

"No, but I wouldn't call him a bundle of sunshine." There was an undercurrent of wry disgust in Susan's Louisianan drawl.

"Gotcha." Straightening his sleeves, Lawley added, "Clear out the as much of my afternoon schedule as possible, will you, Susan? I've got some out-of-office work that has to be done today." The kind of work that could only be done in a stadium. Nothing was going to keep him away from today's Harrisburg vs. Winchester match. He was a rabid soccer fan.

"I took care of that yesterday, sir."

"You're a gem, Susan. Remind me to recommend you for a raise. Send Mister. . .?"

"Milner."

_Oh._ "Crap," he muttered to himself. "Alright, Susan. Send Mr. Milner in."

_Why didn't I just stay out of the office entirely today?_ He really didn't want to deal with anything related to the Rainey case; it just killed his anticipation for that night's game.Not to mention he was still a little peeved with Carly for not taking the threat against her a bit more seriously. And thinking about the case made him think about Carly. And thinking about Carly led to . . . unproductiveness. Concern, anticipation, and irritation didn't make for a receptive audience. And Lawley didn't doubt that whatever demands or pleas Milner was about to make were better suited to the stage than his office.

_And Milner isn't even a witness. He's already been questioned and there wasn't a lot he had to say that I'm going to be able to use. Most of it was simply pure dislike._

"Mr. Lawley." Ted – unaware of his supreme lack of importance in the D.A.'s eyes – came into the office, hand outstretched. "Thank you for agreeing to see me on such short notice."

"Mr. Milner." The men shook hands, then took their seats. "I confess that I'm a little unclear as to the reason behind your sudden visit." _Specially since you wouldn't tell my secretary._ "Unless you've discovered some new proof behind your fiancée's ex's case, you shouldn't even be here."

"I understand. Don't want to get too friendly with anyone connected to the accused."

There was heavy sarcasm in this statement. Not that Lawley understood what this guy had to be upset about. So he simply agreed. "Precisely. Now, if you'd continue?"

"You mean you haven't heard the good news?" Ted knew the other man hadn't; Amy had let slip that Dr. Beckham had neglected to pass along ol' Morty's progress to legal counsel. He'd bet everything that some sort of trouble could be caused by that lag.

"Good news?" _He doesn't think I'd be interested in whether or not he and the former Mrs. Rainey have tied the knot._

"Oh, then Dr. Beckham hasn't passed along her news yet. Understandable, I mean, she's a busy woman and _so_ protective of her patients –"

"Please, get to the point, Mr. Milner. I have tickets for the Harrisburg/Winchester match tonight, and I won't appreciate being late for it."

"Oh, you're a soccer man then?"

"I'm a _busy_ man, Mr. Milner," Lawley ground out. This was one of the most frustrating talks he'd had in ages. "I have a great deal yet to do today before I can leave. I don't have time for chit-chat. I still need to get through three briefings for hearings I have to appear at next week, not to mention that there's more than a few subpoenas sitting in my briefcase that need to lodged and filed before closing time. I can give you another ten minutes of my time, but then I really need to get back to work."

"I'm sorry. Of course you're right." Ted straightened in his seat. "I just thought that someone should inform you that Dr. Beckham's been concealing important information from you."

"So you've said. Spit it out, would you?" Lawley knew that Carly had tricks up her sleeve, and that she wouldn't feel the least bit of guilt in stalling the report of new information, but she'd get around too it before things got serious. She wouldn't do anything so desperate as what this man was hinting at.

Or at least he didn't think –

"Mort's talking."

"What?"

Observing the look of shock – and dare he say _betrayal_? – on the DA's face, Ted felt a deep sense of satisfaction. Not only was the uptight and always professional Dr. Beckham hiding info, but he thought it might be possible that she was sleeping with the enemy. "Oh, yes. For about a week now."

"What?" Lawley just had to repeat the question to make sure that he'd heard correctly. Rainey had been speaking for a _week_? And no one from Briar Ridge had bothered to contact his office? Even if Carly didn't want to bother, there was no excuse for her boss not to call or courier a note over. This - _this_ - was the break they were all waiting for. It was inexcusable for the State to be left out of the loop like this. "How do you know this?"

Ted shrugged. "How else? The moment he opened his yap, Dr. Beckham was on the phone with Amy. It's like they've become best friends. They're always on the phone together. All Amy can talk about is 'the doctor said this,' and 'the doctor said that.' Personally, I think it's unprofessional."

If it were true, then Mr. Milner was correct. True, it was only right that the patient's family be contacted first, but damn it! She had _court orders_ to report it the moment Rainey started speaking. And this wasn't about her not letting him know - that's what he told himself anyway. This was about her office not contacting his office. This was about her throwing her vaunted professionalism out the window.

It was also about the fact that he was trapped in his office with the king of the jackasses, having to deal with the man's "you're as useful as chicken spit" smirk. That alone was enough to get some of his own back for.

"Thank you for bringing me this information, Mr. Milner." True, he would have preferred an e-mail to having to face this man's overweening sense of superiority, but . . . "I'll have to look into this -" _Damn. _With everything else he had to do, he wasn't going to be able to make it to the game. Unless he could talk is boss into letting him . . . or better yet, not pass along the information at all. Since Carly hadn't seen fit to pass the information along yet in the first place, interviewing Rainey could undoubtedly wait until Monday. . .

"My pleasure, Mr. Lawley. My pleasure."

Lawley waited until his quest was at the door before he asked, "And what is it that you're getting out of this?"

"Just the pleasure in a job well done," was the enigmatic reply, and Ted didn't stick around to explain.

* * *

Carly, seeing as how it was Friday afternoon, made her way to Augusta General for her weekly visit with Toby. Though _to_ Toby might have been more accurate since she did all the talking and he laid in his bed like a bump on a log. Not that he was at fault for his less than scintillating company, seeing as how he was still in a coma.

_At least he's out of ICU ward,_ she thought gratefully as she made her way through the lobby. She thought in odd moments, after she'd made her visit and was trying to forget, that whoever had designed Briar Ridge should have made allowances for natural light. It bolstered her, and must do the same for others. Surely a facility for the mentally problematic could use that same cheer. She couldn't be the only one who felt like she was drowning in fluorescent lighting.

"Ms. Beckham. Right on time as usual."

Hearing herself called by something other than her professional name called Carly out of her internal dialogue. _It's a good thing I have a good autopilot,_ she thought as she looked around and recognized the wing where Toby was being kept. _I'd be lost most of the time otherwise._ "Hello, Agnes. Am I really so predictable?"

"Right down to the newspaper in your hand," the elderly candy-striper said, causing Carly to automatically look down at the newspaper in her right hand.

"I'm a big believer in the human mind." Her years as a psychologist had taught her that the mind was capable of amazing things. Unknowable, unexplainable things. It never shut down, not even in sleep. So reading to Toby and keeping him informed of current events – even if it was just a peripheral awareness – was not a waste of time. It was a way of giving his mind something to do with itself.

"Of course you are, dearie." Agnes patted Carly on the hand in a grandmotherly fashion. "Go right in. I'm sure he's waiting to hear what the current MLB stats are."

Actually, Carly wasn't sure at all if Toby even followed baseball, but she wasn't going to argue either. "Have a nice afternoon, Agnes."

"Oh, you can be sure of it."

Carly smiled at the old woman's irascibility, then walked down the hallway and entered Toby's room. "Hey there, old man," she said in greeting as she took a seat in a nearby chair. "You know, if you're competing with Mort for speechless man of the year, you've won. Mort's a regular chatterbox compared to you." She didn't expect a response, and she didn't get one. "You see, Mort would have at least given me a look of distain. You're lucky I don't get offended and leave without reading the paper to you. I'm a regular angel of mercy. You should be honored; I don't do this for just anyone."

And with that, Carly snapped the paper open and started reading the headlines, only going back to read the articles when she'd discovered what her options were.

* * *

"What are _you_ doing here?" The statement was harsh, accusatory, and very likely the start of an argument, but Carly didn't care. Here she was, hot, sweaty, and dressed in her workout clothes, and the last person she wanted to see was leaning against her car, a scowl on his face.

"I hope you realize what I'm giving up because of your selfishness," Lawley shot back. It he'd been rational, he would have known that Carly hadn't done anything to make him miss his game – that could be laid solely at his bosses door. And the cretin who'd stopped for a chat with his boss right after leaving his office. However, he _was_ missing his game because his boss had ordered him to get this "business with that pesky doctor" dealt with.

"_My selfishness_?" Carly repeated slowly, as if she'd never heard the words before. "What are you _talking_ about? _I'm_ here for a workout. I'd like to know what _you're_ doing here. You of all people should know that I could probably get a restraining order against you for behavior like this. I didn't even know you knew which gym I belong to."

At this, Lawley had the grace to look a bit ashamed of himself, though it didn't last long. "I called your house. Your mother told me where you were."

_That's it. I don't care if the wedding is this weekend. She's getting a hotel. _"And that gives you permission to harass me how?"

"Oh, don't play innocent with me, _Doctor._"

The bitterness and antagonism in his voice nearly made her step back. It _did_ make her have to stiffen her upper lip. Why was he being so . . . so . . . She didn't even have the words to describe how he was being since she couldn't define what they were to each other. But he was acting like she'd cheated on him or something.

Lawley saw the total incomprehension on her face and cynically wondered just how many things she'd done wrong that she had no idea what he meant. "Let's just get this over with, Doctor." He stepped forward and thrust a sheaf of papers into her hand. "This is an injunction allowing me to interview Mr. Rainey."

"And you need this why?" Carly still didn't understand. "I thought we'd agreed that you'd be able to interview him when the time was right. When he'd be able to cope with it."

"You mean when he's talking again."

"Among other things. But yes –"

"Then is there a reason you didn't contact my office a _week_ ago?"

"What?"

"A week ago. When he started talking again."

"He _wasn't talking_ a week ago."

"Don't lie to me!" The both fell silent, surprised by the venom in his voice. Then Lawley let out a bark of harsh laughter and ran his hands through his hair; Carly noticed he was looking rather disheveled. He noticed, and laughed again. "You know, I thought we'd developed a trust. I thought we were working towards an . . . understanding."

"We were – until you came charging into my personal life and started to accuse me of . . . actually, you haven't quite said what you're accusing me of yet. Other than lying, of course."

"You mean you haven't been using our relationship as a shield for Rainey?"

"No. That'd be _unprofessional._ And I'm sure you're aware of how much I try to behave in a manner appropriate to my profession. Not to mention that I don't get nearly so friendly with people I just plan on using. Quite frankly, I'm insulted that you have such a low opinion of me."

Lawley considered this. Carly could see when he decided that she was telling the truth, when he started soften. She started to relax as well – after all, she could understand where his doubts came from since she had them as well – but then he said, "Then why didn't you call me last week when Rainey started talking," and she wanted to hit him.

"Because he wasn't!"

"Don't lie to me," Lawley said again, though this time he just sounded tired. "I know that he was."

"How? Who told you that?"

"I can't tell you. You know that."

"I think I deserve to know who's spreading lies."

"Carly –"

"No! Don't 'Carly' me when you think I'm nothing but a big, fat liar. Believe me or leave me alone."

"Fine, I believe you. But you've already admitted that Rainey's speaking and the fact remains I didn't know."

"That's because he started talking the day before yesterday. I had to contact Amy Rainey who has power of attorney. Then I had to set up at date between her, Rainey, and Rainey's lawyer. I was going to get a hold of your office tomorrow to confirm. Now, who's been telling tales?"

Lawley thought about how he could answer that, then decided just to tell all of it. "Ted Milner. He came to my office bright and early and oh-so-innocently dropped hints that perhaps you were behaving unscrupulously."

Carly absorbed that, then shook her head. "That's what he meant then. And to think that I was actually worried."

"What do you mean?"

"Oh, our friend Mr. Milner threatened me yesterday. He was upset that I wouldn't let him on the meeting between Amy, Mort, and myself. He said that I'd get what I deserved sooner or later." Carly shrugged. "I suppose I've just been on edge lately with all that's been happening. For awhile I actually thought that perhaps he'd been behind that note I got."

Lawley's face turned deadly serious. "Are you sure he's not?"

"What's this? First you're accusing me of betrayal of trust, and now you're concerned about me?" Carly smiled wryly. "You need to stop blowing hot and cold, Counselor. It's befuddling."

"Let me make it up to you."

"Mmm . . . no, I don't think so."

"Why not?"

"Because I think we've just found out why a relationship between us wouldn't work well."

"A relationship between us won't work because of petty idiots?"

"Ha-ha." Carly circled around her car and unlocked it.

"I'm serious. Let me make it up to you. Let's do dinner."

_Oh, he's so cute._ The thought was foreign, but not unsettling. "A _business_ dinner," she clarified. "We can discuss this injunction."

"Yeah, I didn't think you'd like that," Lawley muttered. "Alright, I can compromise. A business dinner, but I'm cooking." He pulled a pen and a business card out of his suit pocket and scribbled something on the back. "Here's my address. Dinner will be ready promptly at 7:30. Will that give you enough time to shower and change?"

"You want to do this tonight?" Carly looked at the address he'd scribbled down and was impressed. He lived on the pricey side of town. Apparently legal beagles made more than civic shrinks.

"Why not? I can't think of a better way to kick off the weekend." Now that making his game was completely out of the question, anyway.

It seemed like a trick question, but Carly still answered. "I'm not wearing something 'more comfortable.' I do intend to get some work done."

"Absolutely. I've got the files I'll need at home."

"Alright. I guess I'll see you in a bit then."

"In a bit," Lawley echoed as he waved and headed for his car.

Carly watched him climb into his vehicle and leave, then spent the ride home in thoughtful silence.

* * *

**Author's Thanks:** my gratuitous thanks go out to . . . **Dawnie****-7** (Carly's mother is based just a bit off my own grandmother. My gramma isn't so blatantly abrasive – at least not to me – but she did kind of inspire Carly's mum. As for the setting up bit, Carly doesn't need any help in that department. :P); **Honorat** (I'm glad to see you stumbled across my fics. I certainly enjoy writing them, and I'm always glad to hear from people who enjoy reading them. Mort+OC was getting old hat when I started writing this fic about three or four weeks after FFN opened a page for SW fanfiction. I try to steer away from conventional Canon+OC romances when I can, because I feel that those simply reflect what the writer wants to do – in this case, hook up with Johnny Depp. I feel it's more of a challenge for me as a writer not to take that easy way out, so that's what I try to do. I'm happy you find my characterizations to be real. It's something that I think more people should struggle with – I know I do. Amazingly enough it's the little things that do it though; what sport they like. Allergies they may have. Having one character notice if the other is covered in cat hair. That sort of thing is what we all can identify with. Ted…I've always liked Ted. In the novella he's deeper than he is in the film. Yet the film captured him fairly well. Having both those resources to work with helps me catch Amy, Ted, and Mort better. I hope this update didn't seem to take forever. It actually seemed timely to me.); **vanillafluffy** (Carly has a love/hate relationship with her mother. Hates being around her, loves her when she's in another town. :P It's something I think a lot of daughters can identify with.); **Lynx** (Carly got a great deal of her smart tongue from having to deal with and having to hold her own with her mother. So when her mother is smart back, it's no surprise. I'm sorry you found Lawley to be a bit creepy in that last chapter. I didn't mean for him to be. I was probably rushing though and didn't take a good look at that bit of dialogue.); **Savvy TBird** (Suspense is amazingly hard to write. I don't know if that's because I know what's going to happen, or if I'm just naturally not very good at it. But if I'm pulling it off, then I must be doing something right.); **Stahlfan125** (Carly and Lawley are a good combo I think. She's strong enough to deal with his charm and good looks, and he's laid back enough to deal with her type-A personality. He does want to take things a bit faster than is proper though, so I'm having to reign him in there. :P); **LadySparrowJack** (I am totally evil and proud of it. Next chapter I'll get to be even more evil, and I'll enjoy every moment of it.); **Spoofmaster** (FS has reached novel status in your eyes? grin One of these days I really will write a novel. Sooner or later. Strangely enough, I never feel bad about putting my characters through horrible ordeals. It's actually therapeutic at times. I enjoy it. :P I'm sure it's wrong, but I don't plan on changing.); **CleopatraVII**(Mort is like a teen, emotionally, I think. He's withdrawn so much that he's actually regressed. He's really not a healthy man even if he turns out to not be a mass-murderer.); **snufflesgal** (I'm trying to finish:P It's going to be over sooner than I thought.); **Blue Autumn Sky** (hey, your SN is seasonally appropriate at the moment. :P As much as I like hearing how people like the Carly/Lawley pairing, I like hearing that people aren't a fan of it either. Because that means that my characters aren't bland. :P How's that for egotistical?); **Dustbunnie** (lol. I hope you have more to dance for this time around.); **CaptainJackSparrowsGirl** (He does speak. Not much, but it's all about baby steps.); **tinkthefairy** (That's a lot of !'s and ?'s you managed to pack into your review. They made me smile.); **websurffer** (I hope your anticipation was justified. I tried to keep the pace from dragging too much.); **Merrie**(No you haven't mentioned much about this fic lately because you're so busy:P Lawley's name is good for a lawyer too, because he gets to lay down the law. Not just enforce it. :P I think you should start doing the "Next time on Fractured Secrets…" thing they do for TV shows. It makes my fic sound more exciting.); **Erinya** (OC/OC…it's just the next step in my journey to being something other than a fanfic writer. :P You really gave me some nice complements in that last review. I don't know if I deserve them, but I try to write as if I do.); **luvcaptainjack** (I'm glad I'm staying cliché free. I hate clichés.); **Gaze** (This is as soon as "as humanly possible" gets for my updates. The next one should come sooner since I'm laying off PS for awhile.); **butterflywings32** (Merlin's beard…that just made me laugh. OC/OC that's not Harry Potter? As much as I try to steer away from personal romance with a canon character, I'm not sure that I could do it if I wrote Potterfic. Jellybeans! Yeah!); **Little Fox** (How's school doing? I'm not sure I've seen you around JA much lately. Carly reminds you of your sister? That's great. It's like I need to include that disclaimer than any resemblance in coincidence, yadda, yadda, yadda.); **SparrowLover** (I love seeing everyone's reaction to hearing that Mort's talking. It's the greatest thing ever.); **Not Quite** (I wrote more. I hope it meets with your approval. :P); **Isabela**** Pucini **(lol! And that's why I like writing cliffhangers.); **AndromedaStarr**(The Mort, eh? I like using his name as a title. It seems to enforce his speechlessness.); Charlie Quill (Don't go mad. It's harder to enjoy fanfics that way. nods seriously Actually, some of my best friends are insane. :P); **Shire cat** (here's that more you wanted. Hope you enjoy it.) 


	19. Chapter Eighteen

**Author's Note:** just a little over a month to write this. I'm so proud of myself. It should a good chapter. Not the last (I knew I was ambitious to think it might be), but very close. Very tense. I loved writing it once I figured out what was going to happen. ;) Hope you enjoy it as much as I did.

Author's Thanks at the end.

* * *

"Amy, honey, you're going to make yourself sick if you don't get any sleep. You know you will; you know how you get."

"I know, I know. But my mind won't shut down. I'm too excited." Amy paced back and forth, robe sweeping behind her. "I can't believe he's actually getting better. Ever since the divorce, I've been so worried about him. And all I ever wanted was for him to be as happy as we are – certainly neither of us were happy when we were together – but he fell apart. If he can pull together again, then I can stop feeling guilty."

"And we can finally set a wedding date," Ted said pointedly as he watched her swoop back and forth. She wasn't as focused on that fact as he'd like her to be. She was _his_, damnit. Not Mort Rainey's, no matter what her last name was. And if that last name didn't become "Milner" within the next few months, _he_ was going to go crazy.

Only Mort stood in the way of that happy event.

Ted was under no illusions that Amy would resist wedding him until Rainey was either freed or convicted. In a case as sensational as his, the trial along could take years. Hell, Rainey had _already_ spent a year in the loony bin. _That_ certainly hadn't going according to plan. He and Amy were supposed to be man and wife by now, blissfully happy and barely aware of the writer's existence.

_The situation needs to be resolved._

Casually, Ted rolled out of bed. "Why don't I make you some warm milk, honey." _Yes, get her to go to sleep. Then you can wrap things up they way they were meant to be._ "Would you drink it if I made you some?" _I'll shove it down her throat glass and all if I have to._

"That would be nice, Ted." Amy turned around from her contemplation of her own reflection and smiled at him gratefully.

"Oh, it's my pleasure, Amy." After kissing her forehead softly, Ted led her back to the bed. "Now, you just make yourself comfortable," he murmured as he tucked the blankets around her, "and I'll be right back."

In the kitchen, Ted wasted no time getting to work. It was going to be a long night, and the more time he had the better. It took next to no time at all to get a pan and a mug out, to start heating up the milk, and to start crushing up enough sleeping pills to knock Amy out for a month if they didn't kill her outright.

Not that he wanted to kill her; she was his to take care of. To love. To protect. That's all he'd ever wanted to do.

_Do I have everything I'll need?" Can't leave any loose ends. That was my mistake last time. Shouldn't have trusted Mort to kill himself. Man couldn't even sign his divorce papers without being babied through it by his lawyer._ Yes, this was all Mort's fault, not his. He had only been doing what needed to be done. _I couldn't have known his mind would shatter like that. So it's up to me to see things through. And that doctor…she suspects me. I saw it in her eyes. She'll have to go too. . ._

"Ted?"

Glancing down, he was surprised to find himself at Amy's beside. He had was unaware of how he'd gotten there, and unsure of how many sleeping pills were in her drink.

_Not too many. I'd never hurt her. Never._

"Ted, are you alright?"

"You're so beautiful," he murmured, taking a seat next to her.

"Flatterer," she accused lightly as she took the mug of warm milk from him. He watched eagerly, admiring the way her throat moved as she swallowed the concoction. He loved her. Loved her more than anything.

"You'll always be mine, won't you?" Ted asked as she reappeared from behind the rim of the cup.

"Of course." This time her glance was curious. She wondered what had brought all of this on. The only thing she could think of was he was jealous; he _had_ been amazingly attentive since they'd gotten home from the hospital.

_She's lying. She's not mine now. She's his. _His head pounded, but he still managed to say in a soft voice, "Finish up, honey." He watched as she drank the last of the milk. Watched her struggle against sleep as he took the mug from her limp hand. Watched her become increasingly alarmed.

"Ted?"

The hint of panic in her voice upset him. Didn't she know? Didn't she know he wouldn't ever hurt her. Not like Mort did. He was better.

"Shh. . ." He pressed her back into the pillows, unaware that his hands were bruising her shoulders. "Go to sleep, Amy."

"Wh-what did you do?" she gasped as she weakly struggled against him. Her weakness only scared her more; it crept over her, slowly but relentlessly tying her limbs down with exhaustion.

"You need to sleep, Amy," Ted patiently explained. "I can only make you stop caring about him if you go to sleep. Then you can stop lying –" He'd unknowingly tightened his grip on her shoulders, making her cry out in pain. But that's not what he took it to be. He took it to be denial. "Yes! Lying. You use him for an excuse. You have since the beginning. I only wanted to make you mind, but you wouldn't leave him! You wouldn't leave him." Her look of dawning horror was met by his confusion. "Couldn't you see how much I love you? Even after he hurt you though, you wouldn't leave him. Loyalty is good, but he doesn't deserve it. I do. But now I see that I have to leave you so I can take care of him so you'll love only me. And once you do, you'll never leave me either."

"Ted. . ."

"Shh. . . it'll be okay, Amy. We'll get married when I come back." _Yes, that's a good idea. The sooner the better, then she'll be mine._ "You'll like that, won't you, Amy? I'll make sure you do. I'll be a good husband. Better than he was. And you'll love me better than you love him. Won't you?"

"I don't know –"

"Liar! Slut!" Ted slapped Amy across the face then covered her mouth with his hand so she couldn't lie to him anymore. It made him mad, and he only wanted to be good to her. "Why aren't you asleep? I made you fall asleep! You're not awake. You're not. You can't be."

Having assured himself that Amy was indeed asleep and he was just imagining that she was awake, Ted got down to business. Leaving the bed, he went to the closet and pulled out a bag that had already seen much use, but he had to make sure that all his things were still there. The guard uniform he'd stolen from Briar Ridge – it helped him blend in with his surroundings night and day – a wig, a fake beard and mustache and glue to hold them on with. The most important items were at the bottom of the bag though, the weapons that still hadn't seen any use. No, the nightstick had, but the gun hadn't, nor the mace.

_Tonight. I'll get as close to him as possible. Set him off. Wait for the bitch to come. Kill them both. Tonight. Mary Amy. Keep her for myself._

Reminded of the ultimate goal, Ted checked to make sure that Amy was still asleep. She had to be kept safe.

There were no tricks this time. She _was_ asleep, pale and beautiful. Just like Sleeping Beauty. "I'll wake you with a kiss when I come back, my Sleeping Beauty. My princess. I just need to slay Grendel and his mother so they'll stop killing your love for me. Then we'll live happily ever after. Yes we will, Princess." With one last fond stroke to her pale, cool forehead, Ted left.

* * *

When she heard footsteps approaching from the other side of the door, Carly just about lost her considerable nerve. Facing down self-destructive personalities, patients in the midst of panic attacks, and violent schizophrenics combined had nothing on this. She'd married her high school sweetheart for Pete's sake! She didn't know how to do this. There'd never been a reason for her to learn to.

"Why, Dr. Beckham. I was about to decide you weren't coming?"

"What are you talking about?" she demanded irritably as Lawley ushered her inside his home.

"Well, I don't know if anyone else had made a note of it or mentioned it, but you my dear doctor, are incredibly punctual and it is now 7:38. Thus my belief that I'd been stood up."

"You can't stand people up for a business meeting," she countered as he took her coat and hung it up.

"But you _can_ stand people up for dinner, which coincidentally will be done in short order. Care to join me in the kitchen?"

"Is it a big kitchen?"

"Big enough. Why do you ask?"

"So I'll know that if you 'bump into me' whether it was planned or not. But if it is a big kitchen, I suppose there's no risk of that," Carly explained in a tartly sweet voice.

"Ah, cold logic which knows nothing passion's hot fire." He'd be cooking with fire if she gave him the slightest indication that she'd like to join him. It as the absence of her ever-present, all-encompassing white lab coat, he knew. But baby steps were clearly going to be a necessity if her behavior was any indication. She wasn't exactly relaxing in his presence. "After you."

She looked at him suspiciously, but walked down the short hallway to the kitchen all the same.

"What did you make?" Carly asked, looking around for the source of the admittedly delicious smells filling the . . . room. She lacked a better word for what seemed to be a combined kitchen and dining area.

"I didn't think you'd mind pizza." He cracked the oven open with a flourish to let her peek inside. Not that she needed to as the scents of basil, garlic, and tomato swirled around her.

"All this fuss is over take-n-bake?" she asked. "Something, I dare point out, that we could have had in more public surroundings."

"Bite your tongue. This is my mother's recipe. Her dough as well, in fact. It has a way of magically appearing in my freezer from time to time. She'd be appalled to hear that you thought take-n-back would be an equal to her cooking."

"Right. Are you sure this isn't DiGiorno's?" Carly studied the pizza with a critical eye.

"Rather than dig the mushroom stumps out of the trash, I'll let you taste it when it's done. Do you mind helping me set the table?"

"You mean you my tardiness didn't give you enough time to dig out your silver candlestick holders?"

"I'm a lawyer, not a miracle worker." When her shot her a wry grin, Carly actually smiled back.

* * *

Getting into the facility was a joke. Even though most of his visits had taken place during the night, no one was really on guard. What was the point? The really important personnel were gone for the day, except for the occasional doctor working in their office – if they were lucky enough to have one – and everyone else was gathered together in groups.

So in general, people were glad to see a security person patrolling the halls. They barely even looked at his face, just at the fact that he was armed and moving purposefully. Then they looked back down at their work and he had to keep from laughing at their gullibility.

Finally he reached the floor and wing where Mort's room was. The only difficultly he could see at this juncture was that all the patients had been locked in their rooms overnight since the first murder. But charming the night nurse out of the key to Mort's room was the work of a moment. It was pitiful really how easy it was going to be to get away with all this. Not that he minded. The sooner it was over with, the sooner he could take Amy away and they could start their life together.

_Careful. He might recognize you. Go slowly. Keep it dark. You have to make him loose his sanity, not his temper. You can do this._

When he peeked through the window in Mort's door, Ted found that luck was with him. Mort was asleep, not awake and pacing the floor. Still, it would be foolish to be overconfident at this late date when everything he wanted was in his grasp.

He turned the key in the lock slowly, listening for any sort of noise that could give him away. There was nothing; whatever other deficiencies this hospital had, they obviously didn't skimp on WD-40. Why would they when something as simple as a squeaky hinge could set off a severe reaction in one of their patients?

Barely lifting his feet off the floor – funny how he was scared now that he was here and so close to be doing – he walked towards Mort's bed. The sight of his competitor's – yes! That was it. Everything was fair in love and war and this was both – his competitor's sleeping body filled him was righteous rage. That should be _him_, at home, with his wife. But it wasn't him, and he had no wife because Mort stubbornly refused to die. They'd see how long that would last.

Quickly he planted his weapons – nothing that would cause physical harm, but harm that was much more difficult to see or repair – and then left the room. He didn't have to be there for this part. The tiny speakers he'd planted would do the work for him. All he had to do was go down to his car, flip on the transmitter that would do the real work, then sit back and wait for the doctor to get there.

That's when things would really start.

* * *

It was too much. Nothing was working. Nothing that the doctor said would help was helping. How could she possibly think this wasn't real? That it was only in his head? He _knew_ this was real. He did. He did.

_You thought everything else was real too though. Until you saw Amy you thought that maybe you** had** done it. Done it all. Maybe she makes it easier to lie to yourself. Because normal people don't hear things like this. Do you think anyone else hears this?_

But there wasn't anyone else around to ask. How could he know.

"I'm not crazy."

_But then why are you here. This is a hospital for crazy people and you've been here for such a long time._

"I'm not crazy."

But that's what the whispering voices that attacked him from every corner of his room were saying.

"I'm not crazy!"

_You did it,_ they said. _You killed them. You're a murder. You're insane if you think you're not. You're insane if you think you are. That's no way for a man to live. No way for a man to think. They're lying to you. They all think you're crazy. They whisper behind your back and laugh and point and giggle. But they tell you you're not insane. And they laugh more when you believe it._

"No . . . they don't laugh."

_She laughs. She toys with you. You're her pet. Her mad, rabid little pet. To insane to be among normal people, too dangerous to be let loose at night, too humorous to be put down. But you will be put down. She'll come in and lull you asleep, and then cut off your head and try to find what was wrong with it. And she'll remember how you trusted her and she'll laugh._

"No . . ."

_She'll laugh and laugh. But you can stop her._ Why was it that one voice made sense when the rest just mumbled nonsense? _Kill her first. She'll come if you call her. So call her. And kill her. Kill her._

"No!" _That_ part he remembered. Remembered in frightening detail. Remembered knowing he had to kill, remembered not being able to do so. Remembered something else coming to the fire and doing it. Remembered the feel of the screwdriver in his hand, how his muscles had moved as he'd raised it above his head and brought it down into defenseless flesh. The sickening feel of pulling it out.

It wasn't him, but it was a part of him, as was the terrified urge to do it again. To defend himself any way he had to. That's why Amy should have never come. She'd hurt him. Stabbed him in the gut. He hadn't wanted to want to avenge himself, to leave wounds as garishly visible as his had been unseen.

_She'll cut off your head and put it in a jar, glasses and all. The rest of you will go in the garden. That's why she makes you go down there. She wants to see where you fit in the best. She'll make sure you can rot in comfort and peace. Don't let her. Strike first. Do it. Do it. Do it. Do it. Do it. Do it. Do it. Do it. Do it. Do it. Do it. Do it. Do it. Do it. Do it. Do it. Do it. Do it. Do it. Do it. Do it. Do it. Do it. Do it. Do it. Do it. Do it. Do it. Do it. Do it. Do it. Do it. Do it. . ._

"Nooo!" Mort screamed, seeking out the voice. _That_ was what he'd kill. But it wasn't real. So how could he kill it. But he needed to kill it.

"Where are you!" Books flew off their shelves, clothing was ripped to shreds, furniture was upended and thrown uselessly at the Plexiglas windows.

"Come out! Come out!"

His agonized wails set off the entire ward before the nurses could come. And even then they didn't know what to do. The key to his room was missing. They couldn't get it. Even if they could get in, they wouldn't know what to do.

Within moments of witnessing Mort's frenzy, the night nurse was on the phone, desperately trying to reach Dr. Carly Beckham.

* * *

"This is a transcript of the meeting?"

"No, it's a little something I whipped up for my creative writing class. Of _course_ it's a transcription of the meeting." Carly rolled her eyes. She didn't think that Lawley believed she was trying to pass off "false goods." What she thought was he was disappointed that she'd actually come armed with file folders and a meeting agenda. He'd only reluctantly dug his own out of his briefcase when she'd pulled hers out and looked at him expectantly.

"Just double-checking," he said mildly. He didn't bother to look up from the transcript of the meeting between Mort and Amy. He'd done that once and caught Carly smirking at how easily he'd become caught up in work.

_Ugh._ Just the memory of that look was enough for him to set the papers down, sweep them all into a pile, and lean back on the couch. This was Friday night. He should have been at his game. He wasn't – not that there weren't compensations – but he'd be damned if he was going to work all night long. Especially when his companion was shooting him such a blissfully _silent_ curious look.

"Tell me, Doctor, why do _you_ think Rainey was so eager to see his ex-wife, yet seemed totally disinterested in anything but looking at her?"

Her look of curiosity at his actions melted into one of annoyance. "If you'd bothered to finish reading –"

"I'd rather hear it from you than read it for myself." _That_ shut her up quickly, he noted. "Come now, this whole 'business meal' was your idea. And I provided the meal, so you get to provide the business. I'm yours to enlighten."

_Right. . ._ She didn't doubt that she had his attention. His appearance however – the glint in his eye, the way the top two buttons of his shirt were undone, the way his hair was ruffled from . . . well, she didn't know what had done that – and the way he was so casually spread out as if he expected her to join him in the near future told her he wasn't really interested in work. Which was exactly why she took him up on his offer to "enlighten" him.

"As I detailed rather extensively at the end of the transcript," she said pointedly, "I believe that . . ."

Lawley didn't really listen to what Carly was saying. He believed her when she said that she'd meticulously recorded her observations and conclusions, so there was no pressing need to. All he'd really wanted was a chance to observe her. There was something about talking about psychology that made her light up – as corny as that sounded. It was as if the moment she was no longer the topic of discussion in any respect – even if she was simply being asked if the pizza was to her liking – she opened up. At times she even strayed close to waxing poetic about her profession.

"You have a nice voice when you're not using it to intimidate anyone," he interrupted.

It took a moment for Carly to process what he'd just said. ". . . thought he – what?"

"Your voice really is very pretty."

"I don't think that has anything to do with what we were just discussing, Counselor." Carly felt her cheeks heating, further proof of how flustered he made her with just a single comment.

"It has nothing to do with what you were talking about, but I decided to start a new conversation. Why won't you call me by my name?"

"You don't call me by mine."

"That is easily rectified, Carly."

"That wasn't an invitation!" she quickly clarified. "We're working together –"

"So you're not the least bit attracted to me."

"What?" Carly stared at him blankly. "This isn't a dating clinic. You're going to be prosecuting one of my patients. So what does my attraction to you have to do with anything?"

"So you _are_ attracted to me." Lawley grinned as he pulled himself into an upright position.

Carly made an inarticulate sound of frustration and decided there was no point in trying to take the words back. She'd only embarrass herself further.

"Yes. I'd have to be blind to not notice that you are attractive. But neither of us are in a position to act on that attraction, not to mention I think you're quite possibly insane for finding –"

"Finding you attractive? I would have had to be blind," he murmured. "I'm used to arguing things out in a courtroom. Your own business-like self isn't going to make me think twice."

"That wasn't what I was going to say," she said, watching him cautiously now. Logically she knew he wasn't about to jump her bones, but he was also behaving rather illogically.

"Tell me what you were about to say."

"I was going to say that you're quite possibly insane for finding yourself wanting to act on your attraction."

"If you're trying to imply you're not good enough for me –"

"Ha!"

He grinned, having expected that very same argument to the suggestion that she wasn't good enough for anybody. "Then I see we're agree on that point."

"Just because I agree doesn't mean anything is going to happen," she warned. "I was serious about seeing this case through before we do anything. Even have another private business dinner."

"I'll consent to that only if _you_ agree to start calling me by my first name when we're not in public," Lawley bargained quickly. "And if you'll considering meeting me for friendly lunches now and then. On weekends."

"Why?" she asked suspiciously.

"So I can get to know you better and vice versa." Did she really think he'd be content with anything else?

Carly considered the terms and decided that this was a very strange way to begin a courtship. It sounded more like a pre-nup. "I'll agree as long as we're going Dutch to these 'friendly lunches.'"

"Consider it a deal." Yet when Carly stuck out her hand to close the deal, he merely shook his head. "This isn't a business transaction, Carly."

The sound of her name was almost a shock. "But you said –"

Before she could protest or rehash everything they'd just discussed, Lawley leaned in and kissed her lightly.

Carly froze for a moment, then jerked away, watching him out of eyes that were suddenly the size of saucers. "Lawley –"

"Mick," he reminded her as his tongue darted out to wet his lips. "We're on a first name basis now, if you'll recall."

"I remember that perfectly well. What I'm trying to remember is when we decided to start a physical relationship."

Her terminology made him chuckle. "You have a point. Very well, I'll keep my libidinous urges to myself for now on."

"I'd appreciate it," she replied slowly, not at all sure that she would.

"Then you should probably stop looking at me like that, otherwise I don't know if I'll be able to control myself." He leaned in and placed another soft kiss on her lips to prove his point. "In fact, you should probably –"

_Deedlee-deedlee_

"You should probably answer your phone."

They both sighed; while Carly got up to answer her cell phone, Lawley leaned back against the cough and shook his head, trying to rid himself of the feeling that he'd just lost ground. After all, it wasn't as if she'd slapped him for the privilege.

"I'll be right there."

_On the other hand,_ he thought sarcastically, a feeling he lost when he turned his head to look at Carly's face. "What's wrong?"

"I have to get to the hospital. Mort's having an episode."

"An episode of what?" Lawley stood and retrieved her coat while Carly slipped her shoes back on.

"I don't know. But he hasn't had one of any kind in months. Something's wrong."

"Could it be a delayed reaction –"

"To seeing Amy?" Carly asked as she slipped into her coat. "No. I don't think so. I have a very bad feeling about this, in fact."

"How bad?"

"Bad enough to make me wonder why this is happening, though I'd do that anyway. It just feels like there's pieces missing. Something doesn't add up."

"Should I come with you?"

"No . . . no, I don't think that will be necessary. This is doctor stuff, not lawyer stuff."

She had a point. "Alright then. I'd tell you to be careful, but something tells me you're never careful when it comes to your patients."

"And you said you needed to know me better," she teased as she fished her keys out of her purse. "Thank you for dinner . . . Mick." She colored a little as if his name was either embarrassing or incredibly intimate. "I'll contact your office if we're going to have to delay that meeting." With another shy smile, she'd left the apartment, leaving Lawley to turn his attentions to a pile of dirty dishes.

* * *

Almost before her car stopped rolling, Carly found herself with a security guard at her side.

"What's going on?" she asked as he helped her out of the car.

"We think the patient's armed."

"What!" The unusual briskness on the part of the guard – a man she thought was familiar but she couldn't name – made sudden sense. Not that what he was _saying_ made sense, but his air of tension did. "How on earth could Rainey be armed? He has no visitors other than hospital staff." Well, there was Amy, but Carly had always been present for those meetings since she'd taken the case on. And Steve certainly wouldn't have let anyone bearing the proverbial file in the birthday cake anywhere near his vicinity.

"We're not sure, but there was a shot fired about two minutes ago –"

"Oh my god," Carly breathed before breaking into a run. She cursed the fact that she didn't have sneakers on – which she would have if she hadn't given in to Lawley's invitation to dinner because she would have been at home in her sweats – and had to slow her pace when she slipped on the slick tile of the hospital's lobby.

Foregoing the elevator in her need for haste, Carly slammed open the door to the stairs and started up. The pounding of the guard's feet behind her only registered slightly; most of her focus was saved for Mort and what was going on in his room.

Bursting onto the second floor and startling a group of nearby nurses, Carly charged towards the wing where Mort's room was –

She stopped abruptly when a mountain of a man stepped in front of her. "I'm sorry, but you can't come any closer, ma'am."

"I'm his doctor." Carly fumbled for her ID tag, finally pulling it back. "You people called me –"

"That was before we knew there was a weapon involved."

"I don't see what difference it makes," she snapped, trying not to lose any more breath to her anger. "I'm still his doctor and the most likely person to talk him down. Now, has anyone been hurt?"

"No," the guard said reluctantly. "When our men and a few orderlies tried to get close, Rainey fired his weapon into the ceiling. But from the way he's hollerin' on about conspiracies and voices and plots against his sanity, I can't ensure your safety."

"That's fine." Carly tried to step around him and was once again stopped.

"I'm afraid it isn't. If you are determined to go into Rainey's room –"

"I am."

The look he gave her was chock full of frustration, but he didn't try to contradict her. "If you're determined to go into Rainey's room, I must insist that you put on a Kevlar vest first."

"Fine, fine." Couldn't he see that time was of the essence in this? "Where is it?"

Faster than she would have believed possible considering the way the guard had been dragging his feet, Carly found herself wearing a rather uncomfortable piece of body armor. Accompanied by the man who'd met her at her car, she walked towards Mort's room. She winced as she heard his raspy voice screaming for silence. Whatever was wrong probably wasn't something simple enough for her to solve in a single night. Her best hope was to sedate him and then try to talk to him in the morning when he should have calmed down.

"Don't come in with me," she told the guard over her shoulder. "The sight of you will just agitate him further. That is extremely undesirable at the moment."

"You don't have to tell me twice."

Again Carly was struck by the familiarity of this man, but didn't have time to ponder it further. They were at Mort's door.

Touching the doorknob with suddenly trembling hands, Carly took a deep breath then unlocked the door and entered the room. It was a mess, a mass of displaced belonging and darkness. She couldn't see Mort, couldn't hear him. He'd fallen silent the moment the light from the hallway had poured into his room.

"Mort?" she asked cautiously as she felt around her with one foot, watching out for anything that might hurt to step on. "Mort, are you alright?" Her hand tightened around the injection gun in her left hand.

"G-go away." The raspy voice came from her right, from near the uncovered window. The night was cloudy; any light that might had been produced by the moon was useless to her eyes.

"It's Dr. Beckham, Mort." She could hear him whispering to himself in the hush that met this sally. "I need to know if you're hurt, Mort."

"Go away!" Light flared and a harsh sound assaulted her ears as she dropped down into a crouch. Something nearby shattered as it was struck by her bullet. Part of her mind noted that either he was the worst shot around, or he hadn't really been trying to hurt her. The rest of her attention flew to the door to ensure that no one came rushing to her aid. If he had simply been trying to make her leave and _could_ hit what he aimed at, someone standing with their back to the light would present a target he couldn't miss.

"I know you're scared, Mort," she said softly once her ears had stopped ringing. "Can you tell me why?"

"I'll kill you."

His voice was flat. Her skin shuddered in fear, sending waves of goosebumps across her flesh. He believed what he said completely. "You're scared that you'll kill me?"

"Yes." A hint of agony seeped in.

"You don't have to be scared of that, Mort," she tried to convince him as she worked her way towards him, keeping close to the floor. "You could have killed me just now and you didn't."

"They want me too," he said dully. "I hear them. Can't get them out of my head. I don't want to do it. They want me to do it. Friction wearing away at me until I snap either way."

"If you give me the gun, you won't have to be afraid anymore, Mort. You won't be able to hurt me." Well, he could probably do a whole lot of damage with his bare hands, but she should be able to sedate him before he could.

"_You'll_ shoot me."

"I won't shoot you," Carly tried to assure him even as she was privately shocked that he'd think such a thing. But that was the definition of insanity, wasn't it? Having absolute faith in a reality that couldn't be true? "Just give me the gun." Her right hand brushed against the leg of his pajama pants and she quickly pulled it back. She didn't want to scare him.

"I-I don't know."

"I _do_ know. I know that you need to give me the gun before either one of us gets hurt, alright?"

He didn't speak, didn't move for a long time. "Okay," he whispered.

Carly's heart stilled as the gun pointed her way, the metal glinting dully, before lowering towards the floor . . .

"Doctor? Are you alright?"

_Shit!_ Both Mort's and Carly's attention snapped to the open door. The guard from the parking lot stood here. Mort tensed visibly and Carly acted, reaching for the gun before anything could happen . . .

"Nooo!" Betrayal, fear, and suspicion rang in Mort's voice as he punched out at Carly. His fist caught her in the temple and sent an explosion of white stars and pain through her head. Then, before she could defend herself, he wrapped an arm around her throat and surged to her feet, pulling her with him.

"It's you. It's always been you."

* * *

**Author's Thanks: **to all my lovely readers, including **Spoofmaster** (as you can probably see now, I had a very good reason to make Ted unreasonable in the last chapter. In the movie he seemed on edge a good bit of the time, and I liked that. Of course, I didn't know until this chapter who our bad guy was. I'm such a procrastinator. :P); **Honorat** (Tension is a great thing. As for the state of Ted and Amy's relationship, I'm a firm believer that adultery shouldn't be rewarded, so I guess why they're not couple of the year material. :D Lawley is fun to play with because he's…he's an emotional kind a guy. I'm not sure if that fits in with my usual view of a lawyer, so it was fun to make him that way.); **Mayorst** (Gotta have a little somethin'-somethin' going on over dinner. Who knows, they might never see each other again. I don't think that will happen, but then again, I hadn't made up my mind as to who was responsible for all this until Monday.); **BB** (I used your sister's personality? That's great. She can claim it. I've already claimed that I own nothing. :P How's school going for you?); **Mirriam**** Q Webster** (It is hard to write insights into Mort's mind – for me at least – without becoming repetitive. And while there is a literary tradition of using repetitiveness to emphasize a point, that usually is only in poetry. :P Hope this chapter is as good as the last ones.); **tinkthefairy** (You're right. It is Ted. I swear, at different times while I've been writing this, the miscreant has been every single member of my male cast, and at one time, Amy herself. It's insane. It's a miracle I made it this far.); **Dawnie****-7** (Ted is very sneaky. Takes a sneaky man to sneak around with another man's wife. Ha!); **Lynx** (I loved that line about Ted being a horse's ass. It still makes me chuckle. The last chapter was a lot of fun to write, but this one was more fun. :D); **Blue Autumn Sky** (an SN is a screen name. So your "Blue Autumn Sky" nickname is very apropos for the season. ;) Yes, Mort wasn't in the last chapter much, but he'll be making up for it in this chapter and the next. Lots and lots of good clean fun. :D); **Willy Abberline** (Here's the "more" that you wanted. -); **Stahlfan125** (Lawley has it bad, I'm afraid, but knows that Carly doesn't, so he's a little insecure. As for Ted…well, I think we've answered what's up with him. ;D); **Charlie Quill** (I'm excited to see how I end this. I just thought up a new ending as I was sitting here writing my thank you's. How crazy is that?); **websurffer**(I hope your bronchitis is better. :( I'm glad you went and saw a doctor.); **AndromedaStarr** (yes, it's almost over. Two more chapters and a prologue at the most left I think. These things can be hard to gauge though.); **Rogue-Pirate** (Let me just say that reading all your reviews last week really made my week and got me to get my butt in gear to update. I don't think you ever have to worry about rambling, since I'm a rambler myself and since you do it so very well. Very entertaining. - Here's that chapter you got me to write. :P) 


	20. Chapter Nineteen

**Author's Note: I promised myself I would have this chapter written by the time I left to spend Thanksgiving with my family, and I managed. Barely. I hope it doesn't seem as cut and dried as I felt it was, but then again, I rarely like my own chapters of this sort.**

**Feel free to let me have it at the end.**

**One more chapter left. sniff**

**Author's thanks at the end.**

* * *

She had to move with him – as I was, she was arching backwards to relieve some of the pressure on her windpipe. He was stronger than he had any right to be after so many months of sedentary living, and her brief struggles had been easily countered. Carly didn't think Mort knew just how much strength he was exerting . . . though whether he knew or not didn't particularly matter. Either way, he still had her by the neck.

"Now, let's just calm down, sir," the troublesome security guard who'd started all this trouble attempted to counsel. Carly rolled her eyes despite her circumstances; if that was the best she had to rely on to get out of this, she was a goner. And when she was a ghost she was going to haunt him 'til his dying day.

_Would someone please get me a **real** negotiator? _Carly asked over a sudden flow of nearly unintelligible curses from Mort. His grip on her tightened as his anger rose and she could feel – and possibly hear – her temples pounding painfully as oxygen deprivation started to slowly settle in. _This guy is only aggravating the problem. Why can't anyone else see tha–_

"What are you going to steal from me next, you Southern fried bastard?" Mort's voice rumbled out of his chest, carrying malice, paranoia, and unmitigated anger with it.

"Just calm down –"

"Put your gun down!" Mort screamed. Carly's head was so close to his chest that she could hear his vocal chords grating together. "Put the gun down!" Mort tried to stride forward, but was hindered as Carly tripped over her own feet and the rubble covering the floor. He was unaware of her as anything other than a weight to jerk on so he could move forward.

Gagging painfully, Carly managed to wrap her hands around Mort's forearm and gain some balance, finally getting her feet fully under her. It put her in an awkward crouch, but with some of the pressure relieved, Carly was able to draw a breath that was deep enough to drive away the splotches that'd been dancing at the edges of her vision. Mort paid her actions no notice at all since they allowed him to move with more speed.

"Do it! Put it down!" He was opening and closing his fist in agitation, and his fingers occasionally ripped a hair or two out by the roots, making Carly wince in pain. It was ridiculous that her awkward position didn't have her back aching worse than her scalp from the rough treatment, but she supposed that was the shock.

"I don't have a gun, sir." The guard's voice was utterly calm. "You must be seeing things."

Carly craned her head around as much as she could. She _thought_ she caught a glimpse of something that looked very much like a gun. Then her left foot slipped on something that felt like slick magazine paper, and she had to focus on regaining her footing.

"No! I'm not seeing things! I'm not losing my mind!" She could feel Mort trembling like a gun-shy hound. "I'm not losing my mind," he said to himself. "You have a gun. You have a gun, you sonofabitch!" Just as suddenly as he went from talking to himself to screaming, he lowered his voice again. "I can see the gun. He's lying. Always lying. Thief, steals truth."

"Mr. Rainey, you need to let Dr. Beckham go."

"Put your gun down first."

_Not an unreasonable request_, Carly thought. _What kind of game is this guy playing?_

The guard apparently didn't agree, because the next thing he said was, "I told you, sir. I don't have a –"

"You do!"

Everyone had a point where they couldn't be pushed any further without snapping. For Briar Ridge's residents, that point came more quickly than for the general populace. And Mort reached his; it was as if an inaudible whip had cracked, so great was the change in the room's tension.

He whirled Carly around, knocking her off balance. Before she could process what was happening, she found herself face crushed to Mort's shoulder, the scent of his fear-sweat in her nostrils. She tried to push away, everything in her rebelling against having her sight cut off in such a dangerous situation. Then a pressure built in her left temple and she froze.

_Guess he remembered I was here._

* * *

He'd wondered how long he was going to have to goad him before Mort started to use the doctor's presence in the way he was meant to. But when he finally snapped, Ted watched in delight as Mort prepared to use the gun as it was meant to be used. For violent, bloody death. Although if Morty-boy pressed it any harder against her head he was simply going to shove it through her skull. _Now that would be a sight to see. Morty would have a proper freak out then._ The author had always been something of a pansy. The thought of seeing him break out into a raving case of hysteria was nearly enough to bring a smile to his lips. But that would be bad. The other hospital employees would only be held back at the other end of the corridor for so long, and they still had so far to go.

He released the safety on his weapon and fired it to Mort's left. The writer flinched and screamed, "Stop it!"

"Stop what? I didn't do anything." He was very glad that the bitch in all likelihood had her mouth filled with a fold of dirty robe. It wouldn't do for her to give away the game. He fired again, this time arranging his face to look as if he was reacting to something Mort had done. "You need to stop doing that before you hurt someone, Morty." _Damn. Didn't want to say that._ "Just stay where you are, Mr. Rainey, and no one will get hurt." Not for awhile yet at least. He didn't want it to happen here, not with all these people around. Having eavesdroppers would ruin the moment when he and Morty had their little chat. After all, _someone_ had to know just how brilliant his plan to get Amy had been.

Someone had to know.

Someone _would_ know.

* * *

He couldn't breathe. No fresh air could get in with the windows closed. The thought of breathing air he'd already exhaled made him shiver with disgust. He couldn't do it. He needed new air. But the room was getting smaller, forcing all the air out of it.

_Have to leave the room._ His thoughts were simple even as his body quaked with manic hysteria. _Have to get out before I get crushed._ Being crushed would be a bad thing.

-_BANG!- _

Mort had to keep himself from dropping to the floor, from hiding from that loud noise that he could see. "Stop it!" He'd spent enough time curled into a little ball, ignoring the outside world. The past few days had made him see what doing so had done to him, how he was more animal than man when he hid inside his own mind.

"I'm not doing anything.

He refused to go back to that. Refused to let this man drive him back to being that. He'd reached the point where he no longer wanted Amy back – all he wanted was to be left alone. Maybe write another book. Non-fiction this time. Safer than fiction. Yes, he could see it now –

_-BANG!-_

The instinctive fear, the urge to make as small a target as possible broke into Mort's wandering thoughts. He was crouched over before he realized what he was doing, the doctor laying across his knees motionless. _Was she hit?_ The thought made him push her away in revulsion. Too much blood, too many bodies had passed before his eyes in the recent past.

It was as if her body was made of rubber; the moment she hit the floor, she rebounded, getting to her feet and making a rush to the door.

_She's part of this. She's involved._ He didn't know if that was true or not, or in what manner it may be true, but the thought that she might have had a part in his torment was enough to make Mort move faster than he ever had in his life. Before she'd taken more than a couple of steps, he was on her. She cried out as he wrapped his fingers around her wrist in an iron grip and twisted her arm up behind her back. If he pushed a little further he could break a bone or dislocate her shoulder. The smallest struggle would send excruciating pain from her neck to her fingertips. He knew; he'd researched such things for one of his stories.

"Mort. . ." Her feeble, pleading voice brought back memories of Amy. Of that day in the cabin. Shadowy memories, where voices had shapes and emotions that he could see and feel but couldn't clearly recall. Part of him wanted to let the doctor go.

A bigger part of him told him no cost was too great to find out just what had happened to him. Had he truly just lost his mind, or had someone stolen it from him? Like Amy had been stolen from him.

_The doctor stays._

Whether the thought had originated with him or not, Mort agreed. _Yes._

"Move out of the way," he rasped at Ted. Yes, that was it. That was who it was. He knew it was Ted now. _Knew_ it was Ted.

"I can't let you leave this rat warren of a building, Mort."

He was writer; most words had imagery or connotations attached to them. It was how he made his living. And the images those simple words brought to mind were enough to make the simple claustrophobia he was feeling inside his room seem like a mere trifle. After all, what was a single room when an entire building was closing in around you, preparing to collapse on top of you?

"Get out of my way," Mort repeated.

_You have a weapon, use it._ He raised the gun, uncertainly, not quite sure what to do with it, then shoved it into the doctor's back. It was a good a place as any and there was less chance it'd be knocked out of his hand there. He then forced her to walk forward by shoving forward on her arm. _Forward, not up. Hurting her would slow me down._ And he desperately wanted out.

As he got closer to the door, Ted moved to step out of the way. Even Mort's madly racing mind knew it'd be a _very bad_ thing to allow this man to get behind him. There'd be nothing to keep Ted from sticking a knife in his back. Besides, Ted had all the pieces, and Mort wanted them. Just like he wanted outside. Which meant Ted needed to come outside too.

"You, come." Mort moved the gun from the doctor's back so he could motion with it. "In front. We're going outside."

* * *

Lawley was cleaning up the kitchen when his phone started to ring. He was in such a good mood that he decided to let the machine pick it up. Dealing with a telemarketer or even worse, his office, would be the exact opposite of what he wanted to spend time contemplating. Why would he want to talk to someone else when he could remember the way that first kiss had felt – it was amazing how sweet her lips had been for someone who had such a tart tongue. Or he could reminisce at how she'd finally let her shield fall enough to let him into her life. Or so she'd said. He was smart enough to know not to immediately press his advantage, but he also knew that he couldn't leave her alone for too long either or she'd start second-guessing herself and probably his intentions as well. She was frustrating like that, but he didn't mind since it was also part of her charm. That the self-confident doctor could be so easily unsettled by him when she all but shrugged off death threats fascinated him.

His rather silly grin was interrupted by the simultaneous sounding of his cell phone and pager.

_All right, all right, I get the point._ Hanging up his dishtowel and the oven handle, he retrieved phone and pager and checked their displays. The page was coming from his office – no surprise there – and the phone call from Detective Noell.

His contentment was shattered by a sudden sense of foreboding. He'd pushed it back when she'd left, but now it was resurging with a vengeance. Just how bad had the trouble at Briar Ridge gotten? He didn't usually get called in unless someone had been killed.

_Oh good lord, calm yourself down, Mick._ "Lawley," he barked into the phone. The sooner he got some answers, the sooner he could get his stomach to settle down.

"Mr. Lawley, I'm sorry to contact you at this late hour, but we have something of a situation at Briar Ridge. . ."

* * *

Michael knew he shouldn't be here. It was dark, and everyone said that it wasn't safe to be on the grounds after dark. There were dangerous people around. He was supposed to be back at the group home by now. It was dinner time and he was hungry. . . But he wasn't done. And _he'd_ never seen one of these dangerous people. No, getting the seedlings transferred into their new pots was more important and he would be done soon. It wasn't too long a walk back to the group home. He knew. He'd done it before. Everyone thought he wasn't smart, but he was. He left his window unlocked so he could get back in when he stayed late. He never got locked out.

Carefully, painstakingly, Michael transferred each bean sprout into their own individual small 3" deep plastic well in a flat of such wells. In another two weeks they'd be ready for sale to hobby gardeners who came to Briar Ridge's greenhouses for cheap garden stock. He wouldn't be there for that – too many strangers – but he liked preparing the plants for it. More money meant better things for the garden, and new things for him to do. He liked having new things to do as long as it involved plants. He _didn't_ like having to eat new foods. Especially white ones. He didn't like white foods.

He was about three-fourths of the way done when he heard voices approaching the greenhouse. Sometimes people had used to walk out here at night, nurses and orderlies and security guards on break. But since everyone had gotten scared, no one came here at night anymore. Michael looked at the small lantern he was using to light his workspace – _We do **not** play with fire. Fire hurts plants._ – and decided it wasn't enough to draw anyone's attention. Especially since his back was to the direction the voices were coming from. And maybe they were _just_ voices – the thought didn't alarm him though it would be annoying.

"Where are we going, Mr. Rainey? Morty? Mort 'ol buddy?" Michael's ears perked up. He knew that voice. Though he usually couldn't match a face to it, he always remembered voices he'd heard before. He'd told that one how to find the lake. He'd had a wheelbarrow full of weeds. From the way the man had acted, it'd been really heavy. Michael still thought they should have been taken to the compost heap.

"Stop talking to me." That voice sounded sad and scared and angry. It wasn't really a nice voice. Michael didn't particularly like it. He hoped it wasn't the man that Dr. Beckham had introduced him to. He didn't like the thought of her being around that kind of voice.

"Who says I'm talking? Just because you're hearing things doesn't mean anything is actually happening, Mr. Shooter."

"Don't call me that!" The anger and fear turned to blistering rage. Someone somewhere whimpered softly in response. Michael wanted to go see who it was, who was walking through the grounds at night, who was angry, who was whimpering. . . But the plants came first. They always came first. He couldn't help it; it was just the way he was built. That plants were more important to him than most people wasn't something he could change.

"Why not, it's your name, isn't it?" The voice that belonged to the wheelbarrow man sounded sly.

"No. It's not my name. My name is Morton Rainey. My name is Morton Rainey. My name is Morton Rainey. . ." Michael nodded sagely, understanding the need to repeat such things. It _was_ hard to remember sometimes, and voices were tricksy. Sometimes they lied, but sometimes they told the truth, and it could be hard to tell the difference.

"Why don't we ask the good doctor, since you're not in any mood to stop and chat. I'm sure she knows what your name is." When no one else said anything, the wheelbarrow man continued; "What, nothing to say, Dr. Beckham? I'm surprised. I thought you liked to hear your own voice under any circumstances."

_Dr. Beckham?_ Michael looked at the flat in his hands. It was the last one. Just eighteen more wells to fill with potting soil and bean sprouts. Then he could go outside and say hello to Dr. Beckham. She'd probably be a little upset that he hadn't gone home like he was supposed to, but she'd make sure he got there. She might even get him another taxi. He liked taxis. Especially the ones that were a proper yellow like they were on TV.

He got to work and within five minutes he was able to leave the greenhouse – taking his lamp with him and being sure to lock the building behind him – and set out after the group he'd heard.

* * *

For the first time in her tenure, Carly _hated_ the extensive 1.2 acres of land that had come with the deed to Briar Ridge. At one point it'd been nearly three times that amount, but various environmental groups had nibbled at the edges over the years. So while the grounds nearest the facilities were all smooth lawns and landscaped gardens, the back half, the land behind the lake, was all untamed beech forest. And while tramping through tended land in the dark, and the cold, and the drizzle wasn't much fun – especially with one arm twisted painfully up behind her back and the barrel of a gun digging into the base of her spine – doing the same thing through wild forest was hell.

Every time she stumbled – which was often since they only had the pale light of the moon to illuminate their way and she was thrown off balance by having the use of one arm curtailed – she'd glare at the man walking so blithely in front of her. This was all _his_ fault, whoever the hell he was. His face tugged at something inside her. Since his identity was on the tip of her tongue – she was _positive_ he wasn't a security guard, or at least not one attached to Briar Ridge – she didn't at all blame Mort for his reaction. He certainly hadn't protested when he'd been told to join this impromptu nature hike.

"You do like places on the edge of civilization, don't you Shooter?"

"That's not my name," Mort muttered, and Carly noticed he didn't otherwise disagree, but only distantly. Shock was overtaking her for the most part.

_Ted? That's **Ted**?_ No, she couldn't believe it. Yet now that she'd recognized the voice, she couldn't persuade herself that she was imagining things. But what had driven him to _this_ of all things? She knew he had an intense dislike not only for Mort, but for herself as well. But this was a rather elaborate set-up for mere dislike. This spoke of a severe obsessive-compulsive disorder with overtones of a twisted superiority complex.

_I suppose I could ask what the hell he thinks he's doing._ As they wandered further and further away from any source of help, Carly couldn't stop the growing urge to do just that.

"Too bad you don't have a screwdriver in your hand, Morty. I've heard what you can do with one. Tell me, has it just been luck that's kept you from hitting any bones, or do you just know your physiology?"

"Stop it! Stop talking! Stop saying things like that!" Carly grunted with pain as his anger transferred to serious pain for her. "I'm not a killer!"

_Not yet. But he's being pushed way too far._ That was it; she'd had enough. Stopping put even more pressure on her sore arm and shoulder, but Carly dug in her heels and spat out, "Just what are you trying to accomplish, Mr. Milner?"

* * *

Lawley had gotten to Briar Ridge at a speed that probably would have cost him a pretty penny if he'd been caught. He probably would have been able to talk himself out of a ticket, but it would have taken time he didn't want to waste so he was glad no one had stopped him.

Finding the center of operations for the several squads of police who had been sent to quell the troubles took but a few seconds. He strode up to it, people parting before him until he could see Detective Noell and his partner Yancy talking to someone in the uniform of one of Briar Ridge's security guards.

"What do we know?" he demanded as he came up alongside them.

"Not a whole hell of a lot. _Somehow_ Rainey got his hands on a gun. _Somehow_ a security guard that no one on duty recognized was the one that tried to negotiate when it him he took Dr. Beckham –"

"Dr. Beckham's been taken hostage?" Lawley interrupted, nothing but his tone showing how upset this news made him.

"Yeah. I bet she's changed her mind about how violent her patient is now. Fool woman went in to try to calm him down without any aid." Yes, Lawley admitted that sounded like something Carly would do. "Anyway, last time anyone saw them, Rainey had Beckham _and_ this unknown security guard hostage, and they were heading north across the east lawn."

Lawley raised an eyebrow, trying to sound impartial though he wasn't by a long shot. "You sound skeptical. Don't you believe it?"

"I believe that this 'guard' is Rainey's partner. It'd explain how he had alibis for some of the murders but not all of them."

Lawley doubted that. Rainey was such an introvert that he wouldn't seek out help for anything if he could help it. The attorney thought it more likely somehow Rainey had gotten mixed up in bad company, and the end result had been more than he could handle.

That was neither here nor there at the moment though. "What are you planning to do?"

"The only thing we can do. We'll send men into the woods. There's no roads so they can't have a waiting vehicle and they won't have gotten too far on foot. Besides, hostages are notorious for being slow movers. Until they stop moving that is. But then, perhaps the Doctor has enough sense to keep from risking her neck."

* * *

"What are you planning to accomplish, Mr. Milner?" Ted spun around at those words and had closed the small distance between them before either she or Mort could react. The next thing Carly knew, she was lying on the forest floor, cold moisture seeping into her clothing as she watched the after images of the stars that'd exploded in her head when he'd hit her. She was lying on something uncomfortable. _Mort,_ she decided. He'd gone down with her.

"So, you finally figured it out, did you, bitch?"

Something about the way he hovered threateningly over them kept Carly from rising even though her side was all but soaked through. "I'm sorry that the potential of being shot makes my thoughts a little scattered." He'd been throwing out so many insults that were fashioned specifically for Mort that she wanted to kick herself for not picking up on it sooner.

"Ted?" Mort sounded confused, as if hearing her say his name made him doubt his own conclusions. "Yes. Ted."

"The great author speaks." Ted rolled his eyes as he started stripping off his disguise. "I'm glad you finally figured it out. This stuff itches."

This was either the sign of a man who was greatly confident in his success, or it was abnormal behavior. She bet on the last since most people would not be worrying about an itch at this point. Then he pulled out his gun and casually put in a fresh clip of bullets and she knew that he was so relaxed because he'd decided he was far enough away from Briar Ridge to suit his purposes.

"Too bad it took you so long to figure it out my dear –"

"No!" Mort shot to his feet, dragging Carly with him. "She's mine! You don't get her. You already got Amy."

Carly would have been way more flattered if she didn't suspect that he simply took offense to Ted "stealing" something else away from him. Not to mention she was being half-choked in Mort's enthusiasm and it was getting old fast.

"She's already mine, Morty."

Carly gasped in indignation but she knew her point hadn't translated well because Mort shoved his own gun into her side and said in a bland voice, "Then she dies."

Just as Carly was thinking that she couldn't believe this was actually happening, that this had to be a farce of some kind, the sound of running footsteps approaching their position reached them. Ted didn't wait to see who it was. He started firing at the exact moment as their uninvited guest burst into the small clearing their group was gathered in.

"No!" She watched in disbelief as a figure in a very familiar hat stumbled and fell to the ground. "No!" Jerking free of Mort who seemed to be stunned by this sudden outburst of violence and without paying mind to the pain she was sure came from a strained muscle at the very least, Carly all but flew the few feet to the figure's side.

"Oh Michael," she whispered. He lay on his stomach with his face turned her way. His sightless gaze and motionless body told her all she needed to know.

_He must have stayed late and heard us. Must have heard **me**._ He wasn't inquisitive about strangers, but he'd always followed her around like a puppy dog when she'd let him. _Why didn't you go home when you were supposed to?_ she asked, gently removing his hat. His dark hair was slightly greasy; he'd never really taken to the concept of regular bathing.

Anger grew on top of her grief. She welcomed it, and after one last gentle move to close eyes that would never open again, she stood, and twirled on the man that'd murdered such a gentle person.

"You bastard."

She rushed him.

* * *

The squad of cops nearest to lake heard the shots ring out over the still water. They radioed in their position and what they were about to do, and when went racing towards the forest, guns drawn and flight lights out.

* * *

Mort didn't understand. If the doctor was a part of this like Ted had claimed, why was she so upset? They wanted to kill him, didn't they? But that didn't make sense because she was really, really upset that the man was dead. Was it possible? Was Ted lying again?

Oblivious to Mort's internal debate, Carly went for Ted's throat, determined that he be stopped here and now. He was dangerous.

She managed to knock him off his feet before he took her threat seriously. To have a serious chance, she knew she had to get the gun out of his hand. That would leave Mort as the only armed one in their group, but she didn't _really_ think he was danger. Threats aside, she expected him to hightail it out of here while they were occupied.

_Look at her. She's fighting with him. That must mean that Ted was lying. I've been around Dr. Beckham longer._ He knew her better. She was annoying, and pushy, and occasionally nosy, but she didn't hurt people. He couldn't say the same for Ted.

Carly's head snapped back as Ted punched her in the jaw. He held nothing back; he cared nothing for her. He'd brought her out here to die and had no compunctions about doing the job with his bare hands even though that'd mean changing his plan. Hell, for the opportunity to kill _this_ bitch, deviating from his plan would be worth it. He'd _make_ it worth it.

Desperation grew in both combatants. The fight would be over soon, and whoever won would _win._ That would be it. And Carly for the most part was getting the worst of it. With one arm out of commission, she was taking quite a beating, something Ted was enjoying every minute of.

Mort watched them, occasionally glancing down at the gun in his hand. But he couldn't use it. He wasn't a killer. He'd never be a killer. If he killed now, the truth died and everyone would point fingers at him and say they'd always known he was a killer.

But Dr. Beckham was getting hurt. . .

Carly felt her breath leave her in a rush as Ted sank his fist into her midsection. Her legs crumpled beneath her, leaving her kneeling in the mud, fighting to make her lungs work again.

"While this has been fun. . ."

She looked up; his face was marked by her nails. The bleeding wounds only added to his menacing presence.

Mort looked one last time at the gun and dropped it. He couldn't use it. Not even now.

". . .it really needs to end now." Ted raised the gun.

Carly knew she was in all likelihood about to die, but she looked at it, then at him, with cold eyes.

Mort looked around for a branch suitable enough to use as a weapon but found nothing.

"They'll be coming soon, and I really must be getting back to Amy." Ted grinned, imagining his love as he'd left her, sleeping like a fairy princess. "I hate to do this when I so wanted to see Mort do it. . ."

_He never would._

_I couldn't._

"But I suppose I can live with killing the both of you myself. And I did put him here. That should be enough for anyone."

As the words left his mouth, Mort appeared. Carly tried to rise to her feet as they struggled for control of the weapon, but her abused body was slow to respond. She _did_ manage to roll out of the way before she was trampled, but it was a close call.

"This is you. This is all you," Mort panted as he clung to the barrel of the gun with all his strength, trying to keep it pointed at the ground.

"You're making me blush," Ted hissed back. He elbowed Mort in the nose, and Carly could hear the sound of cartilage being crushed. Mort didn't give in though, or if he did, he did so in a way that sent both men toppling to the ground.

Using a nearby tree to pull herself up at nearly the same time as the men conjointly rolled to their feet to continue the battle, Carly prepared to dart in and wrest control of the weapon the moment she thought she could.

_Almost . . . almost . . . al–_

_-BANG!-_

All three watched in amazement as Ted and Mort broke apart. For a moment Carly wasn't sure who'd been shot or if anyone had even been shot. She could see nothing in the dark. Then Ted started laughing, hysteria edging his voice, and Mort swayed where he stood.

"Oh no," she whispered. "Oh no." She stepped forward just in time to catch Mort before he fell though his weight pushed her to the ground one last time.

He found her eyes somehow. She watched in disbelief as his mouth opened and shut, trying to produce sound.

"No. Don't talk." _Where was he shot? Where!_ Her eyes searched for a wound but found nothing that was distinguishable from the mud that coated him. "Where are you hurt, Mort?" Ted was still laughing, no danger for the moment but that could change in a heartbeat. "Where are you hurt?"

He met her eyes and gave her a sort of lopsided grin. "I'm not crazy," he said softly, firmly, joyfully though his voice was just barely loud enough to be heard over Ted. "I'm not. . ."

His body went limp in her arms.

Ted stopped laughing. "Just one last loose end to tie up," he murmured, raising his gun to point it at the doctor who wasn't even looking at him. That was alright. He could wait. He wanted her to see it coming. He could wait –

"Stop! Police! Lower your weapon and put your heads above your head!"

"Nooooooo!" Ted screamed. These men would not come between him and what had to be. They would not come between him and Amy. They would not –

In the end everyone at the scene would agree that Ted was more than a little unhinged. He raised his weapon to fire. The police responded, the sounds of their weapons drowning out the soft _click_ of an empty gun. Ted heard it though, and he stumbled back, turning as if to run deeper into the forest. His only thought was escape so he could see Amy again.

Three more bullets caught him and he fell.

Carly, sitting in the midst of three bodies of men who her job it was to help, saw none of it.

* * *

**Author's Thanks:** on this day before Thanksgiving, I'm most grateful for all my readers and reviewers, a few of whom are….**Mayorst** (No more cliffies I'm afraid, but I do intend to wrap up _my_ loose ends, though in a nicer way than Ted.); **tinkthefairy** (I know you're probably upset with me for not letting Mort survive, but that's the way the story is supposed to end, I'm afraid. Having him alive in the end didn't make much sense to me.); **Honorat** (Ted is so much fun to write. I'm really glad I got the chance to write someone like him.); **Lonely Phantom of Darkness** (I hope you still think this is the best SW fic ever.); **Miriam Q Webster** (Some repetiveness is okay, but when it comes to the main themes of the story, I think it can get old fast. But then, that's me.); **Shire cat** (everyone hates Ted. It's part of his charm. .); **Spoofmaster** (I'm crazy now, I'm sure. I can't believe I'm nearly at the end.); **Stahlfan125** (I'm glad you didn't see the Ted thing coming. I was afraid that everyone would.); **Dawnie-7** (You think that last chapter was brilliant? I might have to go take a second look at it. .); **BB** (Culprit. That's such a good word. I'm glad the last chapter really upped the suspense. I can only hope I didn't kill it off at the beginning of this one.); **Blue Autumn Sky** (I'm glad you got the "It's always been you," comment. I left it vague on purpose, but it's nice to know someone was following me there.); **websurfer** (Evil plotting is good. I'm rather devious myself. It leads to thinks like everyone dying. Though I did resist that route. It was a close call though.); **Charlie Quill** (I really wrote something that made your jaw ache from being clenched? That's one of the best compliments I've gotten all year. I always think I don't do well on any sort of suspenseful writing, so its nice to see that I'm wrong now and again.); **Rogue Pirate** (I don't know when I'll be writing more stories after I finish this and Days, but I will sooner or later.); **Lynx** (or should I say "Poe"? . I'm always amused when people act surprised that I used a cliffhanger. I lime my cliffhangers.); **tadri33** (here's the update you were waiting for. Just hope you're still speaking to me after reading it. .); **butterflywings32** (exactly what I wrote. I know, it was a little surprising. Even to me.); **Sparrow Lover** (Don't worry about falling behind. As you can see there's not much left so you might as well savor it.); **Merrie** (Thad is a funny name. Makes me laugh. Don't know why. Probably because it's midnight and I'm tired.); **CleopatraVII** (don't worry about it. As you can see, there's not much left. I'd wait before reading the last chapters too. If that was an option for me.) 


	21. Epilogue

**Author's Note:** **gah! That's the end! I really did it. I'm going to miss it, but I think I'll have a few other ways to keep us all occupied for awhile yet. After all, if I'm going to write a PotC fic, it needs to be before July 7th and we get new cannon to make all the other fics wrong. :P I really hope you enjoy this epilogue as much as the rest of the story. Happy New Year, and here's to more fics (to read and to write).**

* * *

She was numb, which was probably a blessing. Otherwise each step would have sent pain shooting from her shoulder to her fingertips, and the clammy grip of her blood-covered clothing would have sent shivers of disgust down her back. Though the alternative, this waking sleep where she saw first Michael and then Mort fall dead at her feet, wasn't much better. She was still racked with shivers of both disgust and pain as the visions became too real and the paramedics had to guide her around obstacles in her path.

"Ma'am . . . move bodies . . . stretched for you . . ."

"No," she rasped. "No." It was bad enough that her charges had died for her, or because of her, or whatever she'd later call it and blame herself for. She wasn't about to submit them to the indignity of being piled on top of each other like kindling while they were jostled back to Briar Ridge and into some cold coroner's van.

The suggestion wasn't made again, or at least not so that she heard it. Shock was shutting down her systems, but she knew that'd she'd hear them if they decided to press the issue.

"Carly!" she gasped. The loud, abrasive sound of her own name made her ears ring and her head ache even as tight arms closed in around her causing their own torment.

"Sir . . . dislocated shoulder and bruised ribs . . ." That paramedics were talking in gibberish, but whatever it was they were saying had some effect on the steel embrace around her. It eased, becoming a support instead of a torture.

"Carly," her name was spoken in a softer voice, an understanding, sorrowful, concerned voice. It unlocked the tears that'd been trapped beneath the ice of her shock. They came not in a flood but one by one, making tracks of lament down her grimy cheeks.

Lawley blotted the salty drops with his thumb. "Come on, you need to go to the hospital."

She shook her head, the movement drawing her attention to the coroner's van as two black body bags were loaded into it. The sight wasn't a foreign one. Briar Ridge had seen it's fair share of deaths, even in the time she'd been there. Plus she'd down her internship at a hospital psychology ward where ambulances unloaded their cargos in silence all too often. But she'd never put so much effort into the contents of the body bags before.

Paying no attention to Carly's protests, Lawley ushered her to a waiting ambulance and was on the verge of picking her up and depositing her inside before she came back to herself. "Mick . . . please." He met her eyes; one was starting to swell, the flesh around it becoming an unpleasant shade of purple, but the message there was enough to make him stop.

"What is it?" he asked, knowing that there had to be a great deal on her mind.

"Don't make me go to the hospital." She didn't want to be there. She didn't want to be alone except for the occasional and impersonal visits from doctors and nurses. Besides, she wasn't that hurt. She wasn't the one that'd been shot.

His hands slid down her arms until they reached her chilled hands. Chafing them, trying to share his warmth if nothing else, he debated what he should do. "Alright. Let the paramedics check you out and then I'll take you home."

She shook her head again. "Mom's there. Don't want to explain."

He knew what she was asking him, but he didn't want to discuss it here in front of a mildly interested audience. "Let the paramedics take a look at you. If they say that you don't have to immediately see a surgeon, we'll discuss this farther."

As much as she didn't want to hear it, Carly knew he was making sense. She was hurt. Refusing treatment wouldn't change anything that had happened tonight. "Alright," she whispered, wincing as the soreness in her throat made itself apparent. Either…either she'd been head more tightly by the neck than she'd thought, or she'd unknowingly spent a good deal of time screaming.

Lawley helped her up into the ambulance, his hands firmly gripping her hips when a sore ankle buckled on her. Then – as much as he didn't want to – he stepped back and let the EMTs work.

"District attorney, can we get your help over here?" Lawley turned around to find that the Press had arrived at some point during the last hour and had set up camp. Detective Noel – obviously the more diplomatic of the two detectives – looked to be wrapping up her statement. "If you do the pretty, we can get them to decamp with a minimum of grumbles," explained the cop who'd gotten his attention. As if Lawley had forgotten how things worked. He didn't know; maybe he had temporarily.

"Of course," he murmured, striding away from this situation where he was helpless. But he _could_ clear out the camera men and photographers for when Carly was ready to leave.

It was nearly a half an hour later when Lawley made it back to where the ambulance had been. He wasn't surprised to see it gone, or to see that Carly wasn't waiting around for him. Disappointed perhaps, but not surprised. For all that she'd insisted that she was alright, he'd known better.

Still . . . to have her at his house for the night, even if he ended up on the couch. . . Shaking his head, Lawley took his leave of things. There was nothing more he needed to do here, and if he wasn't mistaken, he'd be called into work at the crack of dawn to start the process of sorting this all out.

He was so busy dreading the coming morning that he nearly walked by a waiting Carly without noticing her. She was standing by her car, her face bandaged and her arm securely fixed in a sling. He watched her for a long time before walking over to her.

"I thought you'd gone to the hospital."

Carly just shook her head, and then held out her keys in her good hand. It was obvious that she didn't want to talk at the moment, and he didn't blame her. Instead, he simply took the keys as she expected him to, almost dropping them at their unexpected weight.

"Pepper spray?" he asked as he took a good look at her key chain. "And you had these with you?"

She nodded a patted her pocket.

"Why didn't you. . . ?" He was sorry that his question made the look in her eyes turn even bleaker, but he didn't understand. _She could have used this on Ted at any time and gotten away._

"To risky," she murmured. "Guns and sudden moves are a poor combination. And it wouldn't have guaranteed anyone's safety. Even if I'd used it on Ted, I might have still been caught in a fire-fight between them. And I wasn't going to leave . . . him . . . behind."

Lawley nodded as he opened her door for her and helped her with her seatbelt. It made sense, and her devotion to her patient was nothing less than he'd expected.

In silence, Lawley drove them to his apartment, never mentioning his hesitancy to leave his motorcycle in the parking lot. After she was asleep, he'd take a taxi back to get it.

* * *

Carly spent three days at Lawley's house. She knew it was something of an imposition since she wasn't the most scintillating of houseguests. Truthfully, she rarely spoke, acknowledged him when he spoke, or even _moved._ Moving hurt, and her mind was too busy assimilating the facts, feelings, and sensations of that night to think of anything to say. If she could have gotten rid of her mother without a fight, she might have gone home; but there was no way in hell she could have gotten rid of her mother at a time like this, and Lawley – _Mick_ – was good company, never forcing her to speak or move, even going so far as to answer her cell for her. He never told anyone where she was, though they probably guessed, and he informed his doorman that anyone coming to the building in search of her was to be denied entrance. She needed this time to heal.

But if her days were spent in silence, then her nights were marred by screams. Never before had she thought of herself as sensitive, but the nightmares that came hourly made her rethink that assumption. Each night followed the same pattern; she'd wake once, her body throbbing and covered in fear sweat. After an hour or so, she'd manage to fall back asleep. About an hour after that, she'd be woken up by Mick's hand on her shoulder and her own screams ringing in her ears. That's when he'd insist on her taking one of her sleeping pills that'd been prescribed.

"Why don't you insist that I take these to begin with," she rasped one night as he was pressing a glass of cool water into her hand. "It'd save you sleep if nothing else."

Lawley was silent for a long moment before answering. "Because you wouldn't take them even if I insisted. Besides, I want you to be comfortable around me. You're my guest, not my patient." He pressed her back against the pillows and untangled the sheets that had wrapped around her legs. "Now, as your host, I'm going to suggest you get some sleep if you're going to go to the funeral tomorrow." He dimmed the light but didn't turn it off. "Do you still want to go?"

Want to? No, Carly didn't want to go to the funerals for Michael and Mort. But the doctor inside of her knew she had to if she wanted to speed along the grieving process. That internal doctor was a pain in the ass sometimes . . . usually when it was making sense.

Carly fell asleep debating the pros and cons, once again failing to notice that Lawley sat by her side until she was out.

* * *

". . .we are mortal, formed of the earth, and to the earth we return. For so You ordained when You created me, saying, 'Dust you are, and to the dust you will return. . .'" Carly stood solemnly by, listening to the words of the familiar service. She wasn't really a member of the mourning party, what there was of it. Amy was supported by a man she thought had been Rainey's editor or agent. Either way, both men were there along with the head of the publishing company that'd distributed his books, a few friends who either hadn't been afraid of him or didn't fear him in death, and herself. That was it. A motley group of twelve. It didn't seem right when thousands had "known" him, or at least who he was. But the taint of insanity and murder covered him now, even when he was past such concerns.

Lawley had offered to accompany her, but she'd denied his offer. She hadn't felt that it was truly proper for her to be there, much less the man who'd been intent on prosecuting him. Now she wished she'd taken him up on his offer, and not just because her feet were starting to ache along with her shoulder and ribs. Being at Michael's funeral had been hard, but she hadn't been alone, not with half the gardening staff of Briar Ridge there and a good number of the medical staff. Here she _was_ alone, even if by her own choice. She hadn't wanted to intrude upon the grief of these people she didn't know. Odd, considering how that was sometimes her job. And her own philosophical responses were starting to seem too much like the numbness she'd experienced the night they'd died.

The service ended and the mourners stepped forward to scoop up handfuls of earth that they slowly let trickle through their fingers and down on to the coffin. As before, Carly didn't join them; instead she walked away, missing the peace of the gardens behind Briar Ridge. While they might be a sad place to visit for some time, they would also be comforting right now, but she could hardly go there and expect to be left alone. This garden, habitation for the dearly departed though it might be, would have to do.

"Doctor Beckham! Please wait." Carly turned and saw Amy Rainey trailing her slowly. She remembered now what Mick had said about one of her friends coming over unexpectedly and finding the woman OD'd on sleeping pills. She'd had the presence of mind to call the paramedics and after getting her stomach pumped, Amy had apparently been as fine as she'd ever been . . . other than she had to live with the fact that her fiancé had drugged her nearly to the point of death.

"I wanted to thank you for coming, Dr. Beckham," Amy said once she drew up alongside Carly.

As innocent as the comment was, it set off Carly's over-inflated sense of guilt. "Don't thank me," she said flatly before setting off at a pace that caused her ribs to loudly protest.

"Don't thank you for what?" Amy, being in better physical shape if nothing else, easily kept up. "Don't thank you for what you did for Mort? If nothing else, he was able to die knowing who he was, not locked away in his own mind." When Carly didn't answer, the woman continued. "I really know how to pick them don't I?"

With a much put-upon sigh, Carly stopped. "I get it: self-pity looks just as good on you as it does on me. Is there some way I can help you, Mrs. Rainey?"

"Yes, stop blaming yourself for Mort's death." The other woman's face turned serious. "I've talked to the district attorney. He said that you were taking the deaths hard."

Carly shrugged, admitting nothing.

"I've been there you know, after Mort was shot while trying to kill me. I understand how easy it is to blame yourself. But as a psychiatrist, don't you understand that sometimes there's no easy answer? That there's nothing that can be done for people who've never sought help?"

"Doesn't matter. I'm trained to see people like Ted. If I'd recognized what I was seeing while we were still inside the hospital, something could have been done. Even if that something wouldn't have helped him, it would have stopped him."

Amy shrugged. "Maybe, maybe not. You can't know that." A voice called from the distance, and Amy sighed. "Just think about what I said."

Carly watched her leave, then continued with her walk.

* * *

Her brother's wedding was the next day, and Carly was there, second in the line of bridesmaids. She was glad chatter wasn't truly required of her, otherwise she wouldn't have gone. It'd been all she could do to go to her own home to her bridesmaid's dress and her mother's questions. Not that she had truly needed to worry on that score. Her mother was unusually discreet, both when Carly left the reception early, and when she arrived home to find her daughter sitting in the dark, still in her wedding finery. The two women sat for several hours in silence, watching the flames of the gas fireplace before Carly said, "I think I like him."

"Who, darling?"

"Lawley. He's not at all annoying."

The conversation was left at that, and both women went to bed.

To Carly's great surprise, life went after that. _What do you know, the Beatles were right,_ she thought one day as she stood in the staff room, going over charts. It'd been several months since that horrible night in the woods. Autumn's briskness scented the air with the spiciness of fallen leaves, and the sunlight was the color of butter and just as lazy. Her workload had been light since she'd come back to work; there were no more patients to be seen for the rest of the afternoon. With the rest of the day clear before her, Carly decided to do something she'd been putting off – visit the memorial that had been raised for Michael and Mort.

Except for a few gardeners carrying hedge clippers, rakes, and other tools to start the process of making the grounds ready for winter, Carly didn't see anyone. It was at times like that this that she missed Todd. The rascally old man had finally gone into retirement. She missed him, even though she knew it was long past time that he start taking it easy. But he'd stayed long enough to make sure that the memorial that'd been put up hadn't hurt any of his beloved plants.

A small copse of birch trees, their white bark shining in the afternoon sun, marked the place where Carly herself had decided to have the memorial set up. It was a place that seemed so very peaceful, closed off partially from the ravages of civilization but close enough to be tended. A small reflecting pond had been put in the middle of the ring of trees. In the spring wildflowers would crowd the banks. There were no benches, nothing that would draw people to linger except for the natural beauty. The only hint that this was something more important than an unexpected pocket garden was the bronze plaque that had been set in a three-feet-tall slab of granite. Only the men's names, birthdates and dates of death were inscribed on it.

It was so simple, but everything seemed simple in the face of death.

"Doc."

Carly turned around; she'd been unaware that anyone had followed her here. Who she found was Toby. He'd rejoined the land of the living about two weeks after the circumstances that'd driven her here. He was still relearning how to talk, and the left side of his face and his left arm and hand were partially paralyzed, but he almost seemed to be doing better that she was.

She smiled at him, silently inviting him to lean against the tree next to hers.

"Ring," he said, his voice just slightly slurred.

"Obviously there's nothing wrong with your eyes." Carly raised her hand and looked at the diamond ring that'd taken up permanent residence on her finger last week and shrugged. "Everything's seemed simple since the night they died," she said, voicing her earlier thought. "He asked, I said yes, we set the date for next September." She shrugged again. "It's time I really moved on." Not just from this, but from her earlier life, the drinking and the divorce and the years of hurt she'd put herself through.

"Nice."

"You sound like Mort, you know." Her eyes slanted over towards him just in time to see his wry grin. "Alright, I'll bite: what brought you all the way out here?"

"My girf-end."

"Your girlfriend is here?" He nodded. "I assume you'd like me to come back with you to meet her." He nodded again.

Carly sighed, already missing the peace of this place, but not regretting her choice to leave. She'd decided to move on. This was part of it. "Alright. Let's go back."

* * *

**Note:** the funeral service taken (and slightly altered) from the 1979 Book of Common Prayer, according to the Episcopalian Church.

**Author's Thanks: **many thanks to everyone who reviewed at any time during the fic. You guys all kept me going when I perhaps didn't want to, and spurred me on when I was simply procrastinating. Thank you.

**Mayorst** (That was quite possibly one of the best quotes in the entire fic. And yes, I'm afraid that Mort is dead. I woke up one morning and just knew it had to be done.); **Sparrow Lover** (I must say that one of Carly's faults is having way too much faith in her patients. Sometimes it works out, and sometimes it gets her into trouble. I am planning on writing another JD-movie-themed story as soon as I get 'Days' finished. So far, it's looking like a PotC fic.); **Stahlfan125** (here it is. Hope it was worth the considerably longer than I'd planned wait.); **Shire cat** (Do I manage my character exits well? I was thinking it was all a little too abrupt. But then again, I wasn't happy that they had to die. I was kinda resisting it.); **Rogue-Pirate** (Don't apologize for language. I'm a big girl. I can handle it. You any quotes you like, I'm not stingy with them. Tricksy is definitely from LotR. And yes, I definitely would. That's something you've got to learn about me. .); **The Evil Potions Mistress** (great screen name. .); **Blue Autumn Sky** (It is it. I am something of a sadistic and vindictive writer. It's really too bad for my characters…and any others that I might borrow.); **Dawnie-7** (I like the look that stunned readers get on their face. I know because I've had it a time or two. Every time I make it, I wonder if the author is chortling in glee like I would be if our positions were reversed.); **Lynx** (I like Poe…funny, because I never did in school. author is rolling on the floor laughing her holiday arse off I always felt sorry for Gollum. It wasn't his fault the ring drove him insane…and he reminds me of Mort. I have really killed Mort. It's the reason he's a little miffed at me at the moment. He'll get over it soon enough if I write another SW fic though.); **Mirriam** **Q Webster** (It wasn't too cut and dried? I still feel that way. When I get to editing this fic next year ha! I might have to go back and rework that bit.); **websurffer** (Why would I kill Mort? It's the way the story ended, and we all know what happens when you try to mess with that. . But seriously, that is why it happened. I couldn't imagine how I was going to wrap everything up with him alive, I'd been struggling with it for months, and then I knew…he had to die. :P And yes, there were some happy endings to compensate for my extreme evilness.); **Charlie Quill** (Yes, I did. And slipping the humor and Carly's grumpiness into the last chapter was probably the best part about writing it.); **Merrie** (Ted was a very good bad guy. However, since I didn't know that earlier on in the fic, I'm going to have to go back and do some editing to point some more fingers. Not to mention add a bit more Michael. He kinda appeared out of nowhere in that last chapter.); **tadri33** (I'm glad you liked the last chapter. Or at least that's what I gathered from your review. ;P How young is "younger person"? I'm always curious about things like that, because I'm not that old myself. And considering you hear stories about 13 year olds getting stories published, then I'm ancient. :P); **Isabella Puccini** (Smeep! Ha! I just now realized that's a JA thing. I'm so used to using it that it's normal to see it in other places. And here's the epilogue you requested.); **Pirate Rhi** (I really wanted to update soon, but the epilogue was really stubborn about being written.); **Elwyndra** (I hope you didn't die. I'd really hate for that to happen. And I suppose that since you reviewed right after Christmas, that this update wasn't too long of a wait. I'm glad of that.); **butterflywings32** (I killed him. I admit it. There's not enough SW fics where Mort gets it in the end. And on top of that, it was simply the right way for things to end. I understand that it was sudden though. Perhaps I'll fix that one of these days. Right now I'm _so_ ready to be done with this fic. I'm glad you've enjoyed the trip though. .)


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